
COE^S 

VOW 

MARYT- 

WAGGAMAN 



Book ' W \ 24 Cfr 


GopightN" 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



\ 


V 



I 


'j 

t-, 

■ 

/* 




[W 






£?/ 


•^',>1. TTlKCK;*Vj;^;BSr ‘ ypM^^ Wjfij y X 

iS.T^,*r,--,*fv--^' ■ *, '. ':>r ' ■ ,'»*^AV^>,r» r.?i ^ 






'< 


M.'>/ 




.' f • 




I \ 


V>/> 


{1 . ■ Pi t r,/7 








, •• 




^4 





s\ 


:■..' •'*5t: -'y 

«.? • 

- •/ X < 

% : 1 * r- 


i 


*fo> > ■ 'r ’^ - ■■ V>'r^',v. . r . , ■ 
|:4^C ' ■■t.' '•■ ■•■'-■ .' i'-'., ■■' „■■ 



“•* ♦• 


* 






JflSrY V- - 

!,♦>•■«-.- 1 * ,._ ^ V, 

^ ,: /- ?t,-':C''-‘'‘'^ 

* •* . / - - - . 




Ssyb-'-::’?®-; 




« ■ * 


!:-f'‘"'&^.j.:: .-■--..<••■ -..-m 

: - • A'-* .' ' ^' ^ • ' • r *■ • 'S V ■''*‘ ‘V ,t**‘ ^ 

lx UjS^'v . v\ 


■ . ■ •'' 4 ' , 4 1' ‘ • /*- --. ‘ 


* K 






M 


^ f ^ .u • 


(** 


/* .«■ 


• • • *%'• ‘-w • ]Mi 


*r 


PjT «T m . 
rr . ■ f ’■'^ 




,' V; • JER^i?:,! .. :, 
s ■• '• • •j.:.'^ '.v',' 







't . * 


■<t '* '% . ■ • 

.• V 4 • : ^ < 

.rrN r<\ ' V (S^yv 












“ The old man fell to the earth, his message untold^ 

(See pa^e 100.) 


CORINNE’S VOW 


o 


BY 

/ 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 








New York, Cincinnati, Chicago : 

BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See, 


1902 








THE LIBRARY ©F 
©ONGRES3, 
Two CoMU Receive* 

FEB. 1 1902 

Catvtmomt entry 
OLASSO/XXa Me. 

/fo 

COPY a 


Copyright, 1901, by Benzigeb Brothers. 


«e( 


< c « c 


« « » • # 






CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER I. 

Saint Pierre, 

CHAPTER 11. 

Shadow and Sunlight, 

CHAPTER III. 

A First Sorrow, 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Vow, 42 

CHAPTER V. 

The Tower of the Eagles, 56 

CHAPTER VI. 

An Escapade, 61 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Zingari, 76 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Storm Bursts, 90 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Night of Terror, 100 


6 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


CHAPTER X. 

In the Den of the Wolf, 114 

CHAPTER XL 

Tried and True, 123 


CHAPTER XIL 


The Vow Fulfilled 


135 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

Frontispiece, 2 

“ The battle-ship had been transformed into a fairy-land of beauty 

and bloom,” 13 

“ It was market-day,” 21 

“ ‘ He won’t come home,’ said Margie, as Tante Th6rgse stopped 

beside them,” 27 

“ Dr. Brisson almost doubted his own stern diagnosis,” .... 37 

“ There was a quiet funeral,” 47 ^ 

“ Corinne and Margie entered the little railway station,” ' . . . 53 

“ She was giving Estelle a music lesson,” 67 

“They would wait at the Porte des Pauvres in vain,” . . . . 71 

“ Here was the camp of which his leader had spoken, . . . . 79 

“ She took Margie’s little hand in hers and studied its lines 

carefully,” 85 ^ 

“ She raised her gun and fired,” 95 

“ The birds were twittering their matin songs around her,” . . . 103 

“The little Chapel of Notre Dame de Bon Secours,” Ill 

“ Captain Vallette advanced and was presented by Mr. Ruthven,” . 133 

“ I had been taken off my drifting boat by the sailors of an Italian 

warship,” 141 

\ 


CORINNE’S VOW 


CHAPTER I. 

SAINT PIERRE. 

The little town of Saint Pierre sur Mer was all athrill. Never 
in the memory of its oldest inhabitants had so charming an ex- 
citement disturbed its sleepy calm. 

For three weeks the great battle-ship Columbia, crippled by 
some accident near the French coast, had lain in this little Medi- 
terranean port for repairs. Many had been the kindly courtesies 
extended to the gallant Americans during their stay, and it 
seemed but a fitting thing that they should signalize their de- 
parture by some reciprocal hospitality. 

Hence it was that the quiet little town and its environs were 
all afiutter to-day, for invitations had been issued to a ball on 
board the Columbia, and the great ship stood, gay with fiags and 
pennants, and potted plants, her decks cleared for action that 
might prove more deadlj than the fusillade of a foeman’s battery. 

For was it not well known, even in sleepy Saint Pierre, that 
the Americans were the richest and greatest and most generous 
barbarians ’’ on the face of the earth ? Barbarians who had meat 
dinners three times a day, who showered “ pourboires ” lavishly, 
who asked no dots with pretty brides, but gifted them with the 
jewels and gowns of queens. 

So in Saint Pierre, and on all its vine-clad heights, in cottages 
and villas and pensionnats, pretty maidens, with their mothers 
and grandmothers and godmothers, were mustering all the artil- 
lery of feminine charms to conquer the brave strangers. 

''Ah, del, yes,^’ chattered little Madame Laurette, the mil- 
liner, as she measured out ribbons and laces and frou-frous of all 

9 


10 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


kinds over her shining counter. There has been nothing like 
this ball in Saint Pierre before, never. Twenty bolts of 
ribbon, red, white, and blue, did messieurs the American 
officers order on Wednesday morning! Twenty bolts at 
ten francs ! Only to tie flowers for the ladies ! Mon 
DieUj and I had not two bolts in my little shop. ^ Telegraph, 
madam; telegraph for it to Paris, London, anywhere; we must 
have it by Friday night, no matter what it costs.’ Ah, so quick, 
so great, so generous, so extravagant. It is the American way. 
Ah, Madame Morrille, if the good God would bless your Celeste 
with an American husband you could die in peace, for there are 
none like them, none. Three yards of this lace, you say ; yes, yes, 
it will take all of it for a berthe — and two yards more for the 
sleeves. She can wear her arms bare to the elbow, they are so 
white and plump — not like poor Marie Bouchard, whose mother 
had to veil her to the wrist in mousseline de soie at flve francs a 
yard. But one must go to the American sailors’ ball, even if one 
is only bones. And with the chance of winning an American 
husband, no mother will count her francs just now.” 

^^But, but,” Madame Morrille lowered her voice cautiously, 
I have heard they are savages at home, Madame Laurette — that 
they wear blankets and feathers. My little Emile has pictures 
of them in his school book terrible to behold. And have we not 
read of the holy missionaries that they have tortured so fright- 
fully and murdered and burned? And the poor blacks that they 
buy and sell like sheep? Ah, mon Dieu, this America must be a 
terrible place indeed. It is very well to go to this ball, but for 
the rest, never could I trust my Celeste into such a savage country, 
never.” 

Pouf ! ” exclaimed the little milliner, you have heard lies, 
madam, lies, lies. Do I not know? Was I not with Madame 
Louise in Paris for two years? The Americans came there in 
flocks like birds. Blankets and feathers! Ah, mon Dieu, you 
should have seen their bonnets and gowns. They poured out 
money like water. A thousand francs for one robe was nothing 
to them. Truly, I trembled sometimes when Madame Louise 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


11 


sent me to their hotels to collect bills that would have put French 
husbands into apoplexies. But only a smile or a pretty word 
from the American wife : it was paid.” 

And no wonder,” said an old dame who was waiting to match 
a bit of blue ribbon. They have mountains of gold and silver, 
as we all know. My sisteFs Jean has been valet to an American 
milord in Paris, who is richer than any king, Jean says. He has 
hundreds of men digging gold as if it were clay.” 

Soi on through the quaint little town rippled the wave of in- 
terest that had suddenly surged into this quiet little eddy on the 
French coast. For Saint Pierre proper was fully a century behind 
the times. The steep, narrow streets straggling down to the sunlit 
bay were guileless of all modern improvements; the old stone- 
walled, straw-thatched cottages had descended to their present 
owners from their great-grandfathers. The quaint old church, 
with its Calvary,” or open-air stations, its far-famed picture of 
the Mother of Sorrow, might have belonged to the Middle Ages. 

True, there was an upper Saint Pierre, where the railroad 
cut into a handsome modern station, and half a dozen villas had 
been erected by sanguine speculators, who saw a dazzling future 
in the sunlit air and health-giving breezes of this rugged nook 
where the mountains kissed the sea. 

But Saint Pierre refused to waken even at the shriek of the 
steam whistle. 

Saint Sommeil ” it was called by the gay Parisians whom 
the doctors sometimes sternly exiled from the gaieties of the 
Kiviera to this medieval survival. And a month at Saint Som- 
meil was considered by the bright butterflies of fashion as a very 
severe penance indeed, and one that could only be endured under 
the most desperate circumstances. 

Pretty, young Madame Meridith was enduring such a pen- 
ance now. She lay on her cushioned couch in the salon of one of 
the villas before mentioned, her faithful old black Huldah bath- 
ing her head, while from her perch in the long window opening 
on the balcony little Marguerite Meridith was reporting the 
preparations for the coming fete : 0 mamma, if you could see 


12 


€0RINNE’8 TOW. 


the flowers going down the hill to the ship ! Two;, three, four 
wagonfuls; lilies and roses and palms, and even lemon trees, 
mamma. And Cousin Jack says they are going to have fireworks 
and Japanese lanterns, and all the ices are to be made into 
American flags, red, white, and blue. 0 mamma, dear mamma, 
don’t you think you will be strong enough to go ? ” 

^^No, she won’t, dat she won’t,” interposed old Huldah 
promptly. “ Jest let de doctor hear any talk about balls, and see 
what he gwine to say. Shet dat ar window and run away. Miss 
Margie, and let your mamma go to sleep.” 

Oh, no, no,” the invalid murmured, I can’t sleep, Huldah. 
Leave the window open, Margie, and let me see the sunlight. Oh, 
I have had such a dull, dreadful six weeks down here. This hor- 
rid old place is killing me. Elise Lamar told me it would. Noth- 
ing to do and nothing to see. One might as well be dead and 
buried at once. And Corinne is like a nun, so good and so grave. I 
shall never send you to a convent, Margie. One saint is enough in 
a family. Corinne can pray for us all. There she comes to scold 
and dose me now.” And the speaker made a petulant little moue 
as her step-daughter, a slender, graceful girl of eighteen, entered 
the room with vial and glass in hand. 

Here are the drops, mamma,” she said gently. It is time 
for you to take them and go to sleep. You had a bad night, you 
know, and the doctor said you must rest all day.” 

Kest, rest ; he will put me to rest in my grave if he keeps me 
like this. I am growing worse instead of better on his medicine.” 

Dear mamma, it is because you will not listen to him. You 
were playing cards until ten last night. You had visitors all 
evening; you had frappe for supper.” 

^^What then, what then; would you have me lie here like a 
dead woman?” asked her stepmother, sharply. ^^You are like 
your father, Corinne, always grave and wise and cold; you do 
not know what it is to be full of restless life, to long for all its joy 
and gladness and gaiety, and to be shut up here — here.” 

Poor mamma ! ” said Corinne, pityingly, as, having given 
the invalid her medicine, she knelt down beside the couch and 



The battleship had been transformed into a fairy-land of beauty and bloom. 






i ■•*»•** Jl « f . ' • . 

r.f /- -■ ., . 

i»i’A 1 **.. 


' ■ '• ' • ^.'Y / ' *•> »■••- 

■ >■ *• , V "'"V fi-'*’ ■■ *''3l 

■2rai!^r- ■■' ■ ■ 

V. '. ri^-: . .■■• ■■-':'■.•,'? 'C 

f 




- tT» > . 


A 


^ki.^mhs: 





CORINNE^S VOW. 


15 


smoothed back the golden hair from her stepmother’s fevered 
brow. I am so sorry for you.” 

Sorry ! ” echoed Madame Meridith, crossly. Why do you 
say sorry ? It is like a raven’s croak in my ear. Why do you not 
say that soon I will be better, I will be well ; that I can go back 
to Paris ? Why do you not say something cheerful ? I know — I 
know. Because you are good, like a nun; because you will 
say nothing that you do not believe, and you think — ^you think I 
am going — to die.” And she buried her face in her pillow and 
burst into a flood of passionate tears. 

Mamma, my own mamma,” cried Margie, springing to her 
mother’s side and flinging her arms about her in wild affright. 

Oh, no, no, no ! ” sobbed the little girl. 0 mamma, you must 
not die and leave me; you shall not die, my own beautiful 
mamma.” 

De Lawd ! ” gasped old Huldah, in dismay. 

^^Hush, Margie, hush,” said her sister, gravely. Mamma, 
dear mamma, this will not do,” continued Corinne. ^‘You will 
make yourself very ill indeed. Do you not remember the doctor 
said you must be quiet, and — She stopped suddenly, for Ma- 
dame Meridith started up from her despairing attitude, with 
glowing cheeks and starry eyes, that recalled the beautiful Edith 
Meridith of a year ago. 

I care not what the doctor says ; he is a driveling old dotard. 
I tell you I will not die ; I will not ; I will not ! Margie darling, 
look up. Mamma is not going to leave you, to be shut up in a 
convent and to grow solemn and sad and dreary, like your sister 
Corinne. No, my beautiful one, no, no, a thousand times no. 
Mamma will live, Margie, and we will be glad and happy and 
gay together, my darling. Yes, yes, no black dresses and pray- 
ers and penances for you. You shall have bonbons and jewels, 
and flowers and beautiful clothes, as I have always had, Margie, 
and parties, and balls, and operas, and dinners. Ah! Corinne 
shall not have you to turn into a little black-robed saint. Ah, 
it is the will, as Elise Lamar said — it is the will that can do all 
things. It can lift one up from the bed of death. Listen, 


10 


CORINNE'8 VOW. 


Corinne. I will to get well ; therefore I shall do it, and to begin, 
Margie and you and I will go to the ball to-night.” 

Mamma ! ” Corinne exclaimed, incredulously. 

“ We will go to the Columbia ball,” continued her stepmother. 
Do not stare at me in that way. Saint Corinne. You believe 
in miracles. Well, you shall see one.” And the speaker shook 
back her wealth of golden hair with feverish gaiety. We will 
show this old Dr. Brisson what American independence is. Aye, 
we will go, Margie darling, and you shall wear your pretty 
mousseline de soie, with its rose-colored ribbons, and Corinne shall 
be all in white crepe de chine, like the saint she is, and I — I — ah, 
I will wear it for once, if never again — ^that beautiful silver bro- 
cade that Madame Louise had just finished before I left Paris. 
Bring it to me, Huldah, bring me the box ; it has never been un- 
packed, but I will wear it in honor of our country, our flag, our 
gallant American sailors to-night. Quick, Huldah, the dress ; we 
must see that it is well shaken out of the folds in which it has lain 
all these dreary weeks. And, Margie, call Jean, and tell him to 
order roses — red roses — for my corsage.” 

0 mamma, dear mamma,” said the little girl, delightedly, 
I am so glad ; you are looking better already, darling mamma ; 
your cheeks are red and your eyes shining. Oh, yes, darling 
mamma, it will do you good to be gay and happy again, I 
know.” 

Corinne felt it was vain to remonstrate. With the hectic 
flush of death upon her cheek, her pretty stepmother was still as 
wilful and wayward as a spoiled child. In all the fourteen years 
of her married life she had never known what it was to be crossed 
or denied. If Arthur Meridith had ever realized the folly of his 
second marriage with a young beauty in her first season out, he 
had only shown it by removing his daughter Corinne from her 
stepmother’s influence as early as possible. • The little girl had 
been sent to convent boarding schools from her seventh year, at 
first in America and afterward in France. Hence, Corinne Meri- 
dith had been almost a stranger to her father’s second wife until 
a year ago, when that lady had appeared on her stepdaughter’s 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


17 


graduation from Saint TJrsule’s, and whirled the youthful debu- 
tante into a round of travel and gaiety that had only been 
stopped by the sudden and serious failure of Madame Meridith’s 
health. 

They had been ordered to Saint Pierre, where Mr. Meridith, 
alarmed at the accounts he had received of his wife’s condition, 
was soon to join them. In the mean time Corinne was vainly 
striving to carry out the doctor’s orders and keep the restless, 
petulant invalid as quiet and undisturbed as possible. 

Can’t do nuffin to-day, chile,” said old Huldah, shaking her 
head as Corinne followed her from the room, to stop if she could 
the preparations for the ball. “ Miss Edie done sot her heart on 
a gwine, and you can’t turn her; alius was one oh dat kind. We 
got to let her go, honey; we got to let her go.” 

So it was that, despite her fears and forebodings, Corinne 
found herself that evening on the brilliantly lit decks of the Co- 
lumbia, the center of a scene that seemed to her troubled, anxious 
mind like some gorgeous, bewildering dream. The huge battle- 
ship had been transformed into a fairy-land of beauty and bloom. 
Myriads of colored lights gleamed among arches of evergreen, 
banks of glowing blossoms. The dance music of the string and 
brass bands was broken at intervals by the voices of Italian singers 
hired for the occasion. The warm, fragrant, southern night seemed 
palpitating with beauty and light and song. And the star and 
center of this brilliant scene was the beautiful Madame Meridith, 
when, with her two lovely young daughters at her side, she ar- 
rived, gorgeously gowned and jeweled, her breast and arms glow- 
ing with red roses, risen, as it seemed, by a miracle, from a bed 
of illness. Her appearance was the sensation of the night. All 
the other patronesses of the festival faded into insignificance 
in this radiant presence, and she was borne off by her gallant 
countrymen to a cushioned chair, where, with Corinne, a pale, 
sweet guarding spirit, at her side, she held royal court all evening, 
while Margie, too young to participate in the grown-up dances on 
the deck, tripped off with her Cousin Jack, to see all sorts of won- 
derful sights under his guidance. She peeped into cabins, and 


18 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


messrooms, and engine-rooms; she stood, a pretty little vision of 
mousseline and rose-colored ribbons, beside the great guns, that 
lay mightily in thein. deadly strength, like sleeping monsters, be- 
neath the scene of mirth and merriment and music; she listened 
breathlessly while Cousin Jack told how, at a word and a touch, 
they could wake and thunder forth vengeance or defiance to the 
nation’s foes. 

It was a wonderful evening to Margie, who had never given 
much thought to anything save the pretty dresses and bonbons 
and pleasures that had hitherto made up her happy young life. 
This great battle-ship, built to upbear the honor, the dignity, the 
majesty, of her far-off country, sent a thrill of pride through her 
young heart that was an awakening to her. 

0 Cousin J ack, I am so glad we are Americans. I am so 
glad we have big ships like this that can fight all the world. Oh, 
I wish I were a boy, so I could be a midshipman here. Girls 
are not a bit of good, are they. Cousin Jack? ” 

Ho good ! ” echoed the young man, laughing. It is the girls 
that are behind these guns, after all, Margie. For it is the girl 
who makes the home that a man loves, and the country for which 
he fights. It is the girl who sends these great battle-ships sweep- 
ing over the ocean to guard her home and her happiness, her safety 
and peace. Ho good! Why, we men are only paddle-wheels, 
Margie. It is the girls who make us go round.” 

^^Beg pardon, sir.” Cousin Jack’s outburst of gallantry was 
interrupted by an old sailor, who had approached unobserved and 
now touched his cap respectfully. They are asking for you on 
deck, Mr. Euthven. Lady you brought here to-night fainted or — 
or something worse.” 

Mamma ! ” cried Margie, in affright. Oh, ’tis my mamma, 
my mamma. Is she dead ? Is she dead ? ” 

Ho, no,” answered the young man, only fainted, Margie, 
only fainted, dear; come, we will go to her.” 

And with a sick pang of fear in his brave heart. Cousin Jack 
hurried his young companion back to the upper deck. The band 
was still discoursing its blithest two-step, but the dancers had 


CORINNE'S VOW. 


19 


gathered like a bevy of bright-winged birds at the stern of the 
boat, chattering in excited sympathy. 

The beautiful American lady from Madame Celeste’s pen- 
sion.” 

del! it was madness for her to come ! ” 

Call M. le Cure, for she is dying ! ” 

Dr. Brisson had forbidden her to leave her room, but, mon 
Dieu, these rich Americans will listen to no one.” 

With trembling Margie clinging to his arm, young Euthven 
pushed his way through the throng, to have his worst fears verified. 
Death- white and unconscious Madame Meridith lay back in her 
chair, supported by Corinne’s arms, the blood streaming over the 
roses and jewels and gleaming folds of her gorgeous ball toilette, 
staining the young girl’s trembling hands and snowy robe. It 
was the hemorrhage which the doctor had dreaded, and which 
sealed his patient’s doom. 


CHAPTEK II. 

SHADOW AND SUNLIGHT. 

The doctor was hastily summoned; strong, kind hands bore 
the unhappy lady back to her temporary home; then came the 
long, dreary days of suspense, that are worse than death itself; 
the fear, the anguish, the desperate struggle against the inevita- 
ble ; the nights of pain, the gray dawns without hope. 

And Edith Meridith had never learned the way of the Cross; 
life to her had been a flowery path, radiant with light and joy, 
and the shadows of the Dark Valley appalled her; she clung to 
Corinne like a frightened child. 

" Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” was her constant cry. 

I might die while you are gone, Corinne, and you are so good, 
you can help me. Oh, why did you let me go to that dreadful 
ball ? I might have been well if you had kept me quiet — and now. 


20 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


now I have to leave everything and die, and die. Margie will 
have no mother. Oh, why does not your father come? He has 
forgotten me, or he would have been here. There is so much I 
have to tell him. Cable for him again, Corinne; tell him I am 
dying, and I must see him. Cable again, right away.^^ 

Mamma dear, there is no use ; he has sailed ; he will be 
here very soon now. Try to be quiet, poor, darling mamma. 
Will you let me read to you a little? ” 

“ Ho, no, no; I do not want you to read; it makes me nervous ; 
everything makes me nervous. And you are so calm, so still. You 
do not care whether I die or live. Where is my own child Margie ? 
Margie, I want Margie.” 

And then Margie was called, sorely against Corinne’s will, 
and the wretched mother would cling to her, and weep over her, 
until the little girl grew hysterical with terror and grief. 

It was a sad, sad time, and in the midst of it the Columbia 
received her sailing orders, and Jack Euthven came to say good- 
by. He had been on leave for the past six months, and had 
seen a great deal of his beautiful cousin and her daughters dur- 
ing their stay in Paris and Nice. Now, with his ship ordered to 
the China Sea, the parting seemed, indeed, a painful one. 

Corinne met him on the vine-wreathed balcony. I dare not 
let you say good-by,” she said. It would excite poor mamma 
too much, and she is very weak to-day. It is hard, I know, but 
you must slip away quietly from us, and perhaps, perhaps she will 
never know that you have gone, for — for” — the sweet voice fal- 
tered — the doctors say she can not last another week.” 

But Jack Euthven was not thinking just now of mamma.” 
His honest brown eyes were fixed on the fair sweet face that had 
grown paler and purer under the strain of anxiety and care. 
Corinne, in her soft white robes, seemed like some tender, pity- 
ing spirit sent to brighten even the gloom of death. 

You will not last yourself at this rate,” said the young man, 
bluntly. You must have lost ten pounds in the last two weeks. 
Surely this is unnecessary. Dr. Brisson can find a skilful 
nurse.” 



It was market-day. 



, '■ vTi 


•''■*i*©r •* ' .'i* j 


r. 







■^ir 


••1” ,7 « ■ 


> 0 


t ♦ 


7., ;•,• vrV% : ';r1if«’. w. ,jP^g»!Wla0| 


4~^ 


, ar-'^^ . '-- 

■'-ijf V 






/JK . H’ ■ V' • " , 

fclO-* ^ -£.; .*^ '* * - 


\ 



r 




s' ' \ 


/ ;<-«} 





2?r.*- . ^ -V.‘vr ': 


« T ^ ' W >j4. ♦ * .I' 

:* *. -v/,* '• f*'.' X 




4 f 

►■• f 


•r •• 








>f - 

i 


% ^ 
. ^ 

4 


:-D 


; r 



y>«> 


- ‘ 4 - 


•i •' 

I ' 




^ <• ‘ 

.j. <■ 

?% • . • • . . .t •■ 

T I ^ • • • . -^’ -■ > 

• ipiT'.' •■ ' - 


»■, ■■• -*•'- 






P? 






.#► * 


f* * 


x> 


• 1 

' V 




4 




.t:» 


,\v> ' '.-•'.‘•■fc' 

-*•* (k'* 



C0RINNW8 VOW. 


23 


have had three,” answered Corinne, ^^bnt they did not 
suit poor mamma. She is very nervous, and, somehow, she fancies 
me.” 

'^Without doubt,” assented Cousin Jack, grimly, ^^but the 
fancy may be a fatal one to you — to be at a consumptive’s bed- 
side night and day. If she were your own mother, now — ” 

If she were my own mother I could do no more for her than 
I would for poor mamma,” said Corinne, gravely. 

^^If she were your own mother, she would not allow you to 
do half as much,” responded Cousin Jack. But it is useless to 
quarrel with your self-devotion. Bestow a little of it on me 
to-day. I am going away for years, perhaps. Will you not give 
me a few minutes to say good-by ? ” 

A flush had stolen into the transparent pallor of Corinne’s 
cheek. There was a tremor upon her lips, but she answered 
quietly : Certainly ; mamma is sleeping now, under Huldah’s 

care. I came out for a glimpse of sunshine, for she can no longer 
bear a 'gleam of light in her room.” 

And so dooms you to constant darkness with her. Forgive 
me; I do not mean to be harsh, but it is quite impossible for 
Cousin Edith to think of any one but herself, either in life or 
death. Come, put on your hat, and let us go down to the shore. 
It will do you good to have a breath from the sea.” 

They strolled leisurely along the steep, rugged street that led 
to the older part of the town. It was market-day, and Saint 
Pierre had aroused to some show of life. 

Thrifty French housewives were haggling over the poultry 
and eggs, fruit and vegetables displayed on little stands in the 
narrow market-place. Corinne’s appearance was the signal for 
a combined attack on the purse and good nature of ^Ma belle 
Americaine ” and her escort. 

'^The lettuce, mademoiselle; behold the perfect lettuce, cut 
with the dew upon it. Eegard these lemons, mademoiselle, with- 
out a speck. Here are eggs, fresh and white, laid but yes- 
terday.” 

Monsieur le Capitaine, here are violets, violets blue as the 


24 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


beautiful lad/s eyes/’ said one wiser than the rest, thrusting for- 
ward a basket of sweet Italian violets. 

How much ? ” asked young Euthven, taking them from 
the old woman’s shaking hand. 

What Monsieur le Capitaine pleases/’ was the wise old wom- 
an’s answer. And, tossing her a silver piece. Cousin J ack pushed 
on through the crowd. 

^^Five francs for your violets! Truly you are in good luck 
to-day, Tante Therese,” said her neighbor, enviously. Five 
francs ! and I have not taken in twenty sous. Mon Dieu, but I 
will send the children to strip the hills beyond Saint Pierre to- 
morrow.” 

Then it will be too late,” cackled Tante Therese, trium- 
phantly, for the American ship sails to-night, and there will be 
no monsieurs to buy them. Bien, an hour ago you were laughing 
at poor old Therese because her violets were not carrots. Ah 1 I 
have not been blanchisseuse for the American ladies so long with- 
out knowing what it is they like best.” And nodding triumphant- 
ly old Therese hobbled off to buy a bit of meat for the pot au feu,, 
which would simmer unctuously to-day on the American capi- 
taine’s” liberality. 

A sad life had been that of poor Tante Therese. A husband 
and two brave sons had gone down one night among the blue 
waves that, dimpling, laughing, singing in the sunlight as they 
were to-day, could wake into angry, white-lipped monsters, rag- 
ing against the cliffs and swallowing every little fishing bark 
within their hungry reach. 

If Tante Therese had been a little queer since that dark, 
cruel night, no one blamed her. Even M. le Cure, when he found 
her sometimes making the stations outside his little church in the 
storm and darkness of a winter night, only touched her on the 
shoulders, and with a few kind, soothing words led her home. 
But it was only when the wind rose, and the skies blackened, and 
the waves beat high against the cliffs, that Tante Therese grew 
strange and restless. At all other times she was shrewd and wise 
and quick-witted enough to keep the pot au feu boiling, and the 


C0RINNW8 VOW. 


25 


tiny little two-roomed house on the scrambling street of Saint 
Pierre bright and clean, and her own brown, sturdy self from 
either charity or want. So it was a very good-humored, sensible 
o]d woman who came trudging back to her little thatched home, 
her skirt full of fagots to-day, just as little Margie Meridith and 
her big dog Max were having an argument on the slope of the 
rugged street. 

Little Margie, with her broad hat and floating curls and her 
pretty broken French, was a familiar picture to all in Saint Pierre, 
and big Max was an object of mingled fear and admiration. He 
knew altogether too much for a dog. He could fetch and carry, 
and go and come in a way that awakened dark suspicions among 
the simple folks of Saint Pierre. A dog that could carry a letter 
to the post-office, take a package to the station-master, swim out 
to the Columbia with a basket in his mouth, was a creature of 
supercanine powers, to inspire doubt and dismay. Had he not 
been known to appear at Jacques ViroFs shop late one evening 
with an order for six bottles of wine for the American officers who 
were dining at the villa on the cliff? Eh, mon Dieu, but his 
great eyes rolled at me in the darkness,” said honest Jacques 
when he told the story. Truly I felt that I faced the evil one, 
for these Americans fear nothing, not even the devil himself.” 

Meantime the suspected Max, who had been bestowed as a 
parting gift to Margie by Cousin Jack, stalked gravely along 
the cliffs at his little mistress’ side, her friend and guardian dur- 
ing these dark days of sorrow and suspense. 

But to-day there seemed to be some difference of opinion be- 
tween them, for Margie was tugging at the strap fastened to his 
collar, while Max stood with pricked ears staring down the street. 

He won’t come home,” said Margie, as Tante Therese stopped 
beside them, a friendly smile on her brown, wrinkled face. He 
is a horrid, stubborn old Max. He wants to go down to the sea 
and swim, and I can’t take him. Cousin Jack told me I must 
never go to the shore alone, for the rocks were crumbly, and I 
might fall in and get drowned.” 

Drowned ! ” It was an unlucky word to say to poor The- 


26 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


rese. Over the bright old face there suddenly swept a shadow; 
into the shrewd old eyes there came a wild, restless light. 

Drowned ! ” she repeated. Don’t mind what they tell you, 
little one. The sun is shining, the waves are asleep; there is no 
fear. It is only when the cliffs shake, and the skies are black, and 
the winds roar, that you must tremble. Then the waves are hun- 
gry, and they swallow all that women love. Do you pray for the 
dead, child ? ” 

^^Ye — ^yes,” faltered Margie, frightened at the change in the 
old woman’s manner. 

Then pray for the drowned, who go to God in the darkness 
and storm ; pray for the drowned, little one ; pray for the drowned 
more than all the rest.” And still nodding and mumbling, old 
Tante Therese passed on into her cabin, leaving Margie quite 
chilled with a strange fear. 

Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid. Fifine says she sees things, 
and knows what is going to happen. I won’t go to the shore this 
morning. Max, I won’t. You must come home, or I will leave you 
and go alone.” 

And impressed, perhaps, by this argument. Max consented at 
last to turn and follow his young mistress up the cliff to their villa 
home. 

Meantime, Corinne and her companion had kept on their way 
toward the sea. They had to pass the little stone church that had 
stood for three hundred years on its rocky height. But, unlike 
the heights of colder climes, this was fringed and carpeted with 
vines and flowers, and rich green grass, while over all was the 
sunshine of the Mediterranean shore, the soft glowing warmth 
which seems to hold the very essence of life itself, the vital spark 
that rekindles the dying flame. It was this sunshine, shut out from 
her mother’s sick-room, that Corinne craved, and as it fell upon 
her now the pure, transparent cheek glowed, the soft eyes bright- 
ened. Into the fair young face there came again the gladness 
of youth and life. 

^^Let us stop in the church for a moment,” she said, '^and 
ask a blessing on your voyage.” 



‘J/e loonn come home' said Margie, as Tante Thrrrse stoviied heskle 

them." 





CORINNE^S VOW. 


29 


^^When we come back,” answered Euthven, ^^you shall ask 
what you please for me and of me, Corinne. There is another 
blessing I would ask first; without it I care little where I voyage 
or when I return. Come, sit down on this rock above the sea, and 
try if you can guess what that blessing is.” 

" I don’t know,” she said, smiling frankly, as she sat down and 
he heaped her lap with violets. You see, perhaps, we differ as to 
what a blessing means.” 

Oh, no, we can’t,” he answered, hastily. A blessing must 
always be a blessing, and nothing else.” 

That depends on one’s point of view,” continued Corinne, 
still gaily. ^^Dear Mother Jeanne, at St. Ursule, called her 
crooked back a blessing. She said it had turned her from the 
vanities of the world. And sweet Sceur Seraphine thanked God 
for her blindness every day.” 

Horrors!” exclaimed Cousin Jack; ^^they both must have 
been mildly insane.” 

^^Not at all,” answered Corinne; ^'they are two of the very 
wisest women I ever knew. But they understood that God’s 
blessing is given to make us better and purer and stronger.” 

Exactly,” said Cousin Jack; that is just the kind I believe 
in, too.” 

And — and even if it brings us pain and sorrow,” continued 
Corinne, it is a blessing still.” 

/^Always and ever,” assented Cousin Jack, quite fervently. 

In joy and sorrow, in life and death. For the blessing I ask is 
you, Corinne, your heart to love me, your hand to lead me, your 
sweet, pure spirit to be the guiding angel of my life. 
Have I startled you?” For she had buried her face in her 
hands and seemed to sob softly. '' Have I grieved you— then- 
then” — the manly voice trembled — there is no hope for me. 
Do not break your innocent heart about it, dear, but tell me 
frankly, and I will never blame you. Is — there some one — else ? ” 

Oh — no — no — no,” came the low, broken answer, and she 
looked up smiling through tears. Ho one else. It was only- 
only the shock. We have been such good friends.” 


30 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


And we will be friends still, no matter how this business is 
settled/’ he answered, steadily. I know you are above co- 
quetry ; that in this, as in all other things, you will be yourself — 
simple, earnest, truthful. Tell me frankly, is there anything that 
stands between us, Corinne ? ” 

She paused a moment before replying. ^^Will you think it 
strange if I tell you I do not know ? ” 

“ You do not know ! ” he echoed. Then who does ? ” 

There was a troubled look in the soft eyes uplifted to his. 

I am afraid you will not understand,” she said, but it is this 
way. I lived so long at St. Ursule’s, I was so happy there, that it 
seemed my fitting home. The beautiful chapel, the dear Sisters, 
the gardens and flowers, my books, my music — I loved them all 
so well that it nearly broke my heart to leave. It was like turn- 
ing from heaven to earth.” 

Well, go on,” said Cousin Jack, as she paused, and his tone 
was stern with pain. 

I scarcely knew mamma ; even papa I had not seen for four 
years; it was all a strange world without, and I begged to stay. 
But they would not keep me. Pere Jean said no.” 

Heaven bless him,” interjected Cousin Jack, with a breath 
of relief. 

He said I was but a child, clinging to its mother’s robe, and 
that was no vocation; that I must spend two years in the world 
before I made my choice.” 

Ah ! that wise old priest knew,” said Ruthven, eagerly. He 
knew that God made women like you for the world, to be stars in 
its darkness, not the pale tapers of a convent altar, Corinne, but 
guiding stars, to lead men aright. Is this dim shadow of the 
cloister all that stands between us, beloved? Then I will hope 
my love will follow you, will plead with you until your heart wak- 
ens. All I ask is that you will not put away the thought of love 
as something forbidden, impossible. That you will remember 
that you are the light of my life, that you will let me write to you 
in my exile all that is in my heart for you. I make no claim, I 
ask no promise. Only let me hope until we meet again.” 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


31 


I can not say hope/^ she answered, gently ; that means too 
much. But I will remember, and you can write to me as you 
wish — and — and — She hesitated. The soft flush deepened on 
her cheek. I will answer you truly — as my heart and conscience 
bid me.” 

“ Heart and conscience ! ” he repeated, grimly. I suppose I 
must be content with the combination, since it is you, Corinne. 
You will think of me ; write to me.” 

And pray for you,” she added, softly. 

^^Best of all,” he answered, smiling. “That will be turning 
her own guns against St. Ursule’s in earnest. Give me a violet 
as pledge of each promise. You will think of me as your true lover ; 
you will write to me as a faithful friend; you will pray for me. 
How will you pray for me, Corinne ? ” He took the hand with 
which she gave the violets and held it for a moment in his own, 
while his eyes questioned hers with a tenderness that was akin to 
reverence. 

“ That, if it be God’s will. He will guide you back to me,” she 
answered, with a simple sincerity that startled him. 

“ Amen,” he said, in a low, moved voice, as he bent and kissed 
the hand he held ere he released it. “ So will I pray night 
and morning until we meet again. And I will strive to keep 
myself worthy of that meeting, and all that God grant it 
may mean.” 

“ And now we must go back to mamma,” she said, rising. “ I 
have left her too long, for she is very weak. I have had my 
glimpse of sunshine,” she added, with a little sigh. 

“And I my glimpse of heaven,” he answered. “It will 
brighten all earth to me until we meet again. We were to stop 
in the old church, remember, and ask a blessing on my voyage, and 
a greater one on my return.” 

“ And I will leave my violets at Blessed Mother’s altar,” said 
Corinne, as they passed into the quaint old churchyard, with its 
graves and its Calvary, and into the quaint old church, that seemed 
dim and misty with the tears and sorrows and sins of three hun- 
dred years. 


32 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


Many were the ex- votes ” about the humble altar — lamps and 
candlesticks of curious workmanship, hearts of beaten silver, 
broken bits of spar and cordage from barks, saved in fierce tem- 
pests, treasures of ivory and coral from distant seas. But as 
Corinne bowed her head in prayer before the little altar, and left 
her violets to breathe of love and sunshine, and youth’s sweet 
hopes in that sorrow-laden air, Euthven felt the purest of all 
ex-votos had been laid at the feet of Mary, the Star of the Sea. 


CHAPTEE III. 

A FIRST SORROW. 

The Columbia sailed next day. All Saint Pierre was at the 
waterside to see the great American ship depart. 

With the Stars and Stripes floating to the breeze, her decks 
manned with blue-capped sailors, the band playing Yankee 
Doodle,” she swept out of the friendly harbor, her guns crashing 
out a last farewell as she crossed the foam-washed bar, three miles 
beyond the cliff-girdled shore. 

It was a very pale Corinne that stood on the veranda of the 
villa, watching the great battle-ship lessening in the glittering dis- 
tance. Was it only because it was her ship and her countrymen, 
that she felt so utterly desolate, now that it had gone ? 

True, there was a delightful sense of friendliness and protec- 
tion in the knowledge that the Stars and Stripes were floating 
over five hundred gallant Americans in this distant little French 
harbor, but — but Corinne knew that if one of the five hundred 
were at her side to-day, she would feel quite resigned to the depar- 
ture of all the rest. She would miss him sorely, this kind, true 
friend, on whose strength she could have relied in the sad strain 
that was upon her body and mind. 

For the end was very near now; only a few days, the doctor 
said, and all would be over; the gay, frivolous life that had ac- 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


33 


cepted no duties, shirked all responsibilities, ignored all high and 
holy purpose, would pass into the silence and darkness that sur- 
round the judgment-seat of God. And Madame Meridith clung 
to her stepdaughter with the wild terror of a frightened child. 
Corinne had to think for her, to pray for her, to bear up the weak, 
faltering soul with words of comfort and hope night and day. 

Into the icy gloom of this Valley of the Shadow, which lay 
like a death chill upon her own young life and heart. Jack Euth- 
ven’s love had burst with all the warmth and glow and gladness 
of summer sunshine. And now that he had gone she seemed to 
be shivering again, like one left alone in the winter night. 

Oh,^’ sobbed Margie, hiding her face on her sister’s shoulder 
as the guns of the Columbia crashed out farewell from the har- 
bor bar, “ what will I do without Cousin Jack ? ” 

What did you do before he came ? ” asked Corinne, with 
forced gaiety. 

Ah, that was different,” answered the little girl, sadly. You 
know it was different. Mamma was well, and we all were gay and 
happy. Now we are always sad, and there are no plays or dances, 
or shops, or anything, in this dreadful old place. There was only 
the Columbia and Cousin Jack, and now they, too, are gone. Ah, 
del, but you do not care, Corinne; he never brought you bon- 
bons and nice books, or took you donkey riding along the Cornice 
road, or gave you a dog like Max. Ah, Cousin Jack did not like 
you as he liked me.” 

And Margie sobbed again so vehemently that Corinne had to 
send her out of mamma’s hearing, with a bribe of five francs to 
purchase a new collar for Max, who was his little mistress’ sole 
comforter now. 

It was a dreary day for all Saint Pierre, for the great Ameri- 
can ship, with her gallant crew, had brought life and cheer and 
unwonted plenty to this little rocky haven of the Mediterranean 
shore. 

"" Va, done! There will be no more five francs for violets now, 
Tante Therese,” cackled old Mere Marron, as she stopped at her 
neighbor’s door. 


34 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


" There are the fine linens and laces still/^ answered old The- 
rese, as with her knotted brown hands she hung out a dainty robe 
upon her line. 

Ah, and there will be an end to all that, too, soon,” nodded 
old Mere Marron, with dark significance. One needs no blan- 
chisseuse for a shroud. Three times to-day was the doctor at the 
Villa de Sante, trying to give the poor American lady breath.” 

Hush thee, then,” said old Therese, indignantly ; who but 
the good God can do that ? ” 

I say only what Jean Barreau told me. The doctors brought 
it in big bags, without doubt worth their weight in gold. Ah! 
these Americans will try to buy everything, even the breath of 
life itself. Ah, mon Dieu, but they find it hard to die. Madame 
Celeste says, though the young lady prays and begs, her mother 
will not see Monsieur le Cure, although he goes there every day.” 

Mademoiselle is an angel,” said Tante Therese. Every 
morning she is at Mass.” 

“ But the rest are heretics, all,” said Mere Marron, and the 
black woman — mon Dieu, but she is terrible to look on. It is 
as if the devil had come in petticoats to Saint Pierre. So big, so 
black, so ugly ! ” 

“Ah, that is all you know,” said Tante Therese. “If you 
could have seen them all last evening at the sunset. They were 
at the Calvary, making the stations of the Cross — mademoiselle, 
the little girl, the black woman, all. Ah, Heaven, how they 
prayed ! It was good to hear mademoiselle’s sweet voice, ^ Jesus, 
have mercy,’ she said, ^ have mercy, have mercy,’ and the little girl 
and the old black prayed, too, ^ Have mercy.’ Ho heretics pray 
like that before the cross? Ho, no, no; I tell you. Mere Marron, 
no, no.” 

The wild look was coming into Tante Therese’s eyes. Mere 
Marron found it wise to depart without any further questioning 
of the Americaine’s Christianity, which had always been a matter 
of suspicion at Saint Pierre, where the * stories of early Indian 
missions and martyrs were the best known facts of American 
history, and poor Huldah, with her gay head-kerchief, her big ear- 


C0RINNW8 VOW, 


35 


rings, her black face, was a barbaric presence that confirmed all 
Saint Pierre had learned of transatlantic savages. 

We must confess, however, that Mere Marron’s gossip was not 
altogether without foundation, for thus far Madame Meridith 
had positively refused to see good Pere Michaux, the cure of Saint 
Pierre. A Catholic only in name for years, she shrank with hor- 
ror from the last solemn consolations of the Church, which to her 
seemed the seal of doom. In vain Corinne urged and pleaded. 

^^No, no, not to-day,” was the childish procrastination; I 
am not dying yet, Corinne, not yet.” 

And, indeed, so fair and bright did the beautiful face some- 
times look, haloed by its wealth of golden hair; so wonderfully 
at intervals did his patient rally and vow she would live, that old 
Dr. Brisson almost doubted his own stern diagnosis as he sat 
beside the bed, in wonder at the vitality that defied the hand of 
Death. 

It is the Americaine charactere, it is the Americaine inde- 
pendance, that keeps her alive. I do assure you, mademoiselle, 
that by the rules of medical science, madame, your mother, should 
have died two weeks ago.” 

God is good to her,” was Corinne^s simple answer. She is 
waiting to see papa. Oh, why does he not come, why does he not 
come ? ” For in three days after the departure of the Columbia a 
new anxiety had been added to Corinne’s burden of care. Ufm- 
peratrice, in which her father had taken passage, was overdue. 
He had cabled her he would be with her on the fifteenth of the 
month, and now it was the twentieth, and she had heard nothing 
from him yet. 

News came late to this little fishing harbor, where there was 
no fierce race for the swift or battle for the strong. Yet, as 
Corinne passed along the rocky street to-day, to cash her last draft 
from America at Monsieur Lafitte’s little office, there was a chill 
foreboding of evil upon her that all the sunshine of Saint Pierre 
could not dispel. 

Monsieur Lafitte was the great man of the village. To his 
offices of magistrate and notary he added the more remunerative 


36 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


business of note and exchange broker for the tourists, travelers, 
and sojourners in Saint Pierre. He was a pompous but good- 
hearted little man, who received the young American mademoi- 
selle with the empressement naturally aroused by monthly busi- 
ness transactions of most substantial figures. 

What could he do for mademoiselle to-day? He was at her 
command for any service. Would she not step into his private 
office, where she could transact her business at leisure, and per- 
haps accept from Madame Lafitte a small glass of her fruit cor- 
dial, which was most excellent for the health? 

And Corinne, who knew the simple ways of Saint Pierre, 
stepped into a pleasant little room, that only a table laden in a 
most impressive manner with papers and documents proclaimed 
a business office, and proceeded to the brief money matters, which 
Monsieur Lafitte found thoroughly satisfactory. 

" Mademoiselle has much responsibility for one so young and 
so charming, said the notary, with a fatherly sympathy. It is to 
be hoped that Monsieur Meridith will soon arrive to relieve her of 
these too heavy cares.’^ 

I am expecting him every day,^^ replied Corinne. He 
sailed on the third of this month in UImpkatrice.'* 

Ah ! ’’ Monsieur Lafitte, who had been making some neces- 
sary entries in his account book, turned toward Corinne, a star- 
tled look upon his face. I/Ini peratrice ! Is mademoiselle sure ? ” 

Quite sure. He cabled me the hour before he left New 
York. Why do you ask? Has the ship arrived?’’ she inquired 
eagerly. 

^^No, mademoiselle, no, unfortunately no.” The speaker’s 
brown, wrinkled face grew still more troubled. And mademoi- 
selle — has — has — heard — nothing ? ” 

No,” answered Corinne, growing very white, but you have, 
monsieur. I see it in your face. Something has happened. Oh, 
my poor papa, my poor papa ! For God’s sake tell me at once 
all. I must know.” 

Mademoiselle, mademoiselle ” — the little man was in a 
very tremor of excitement now — there is no surety ; it is but a 



Dr. Brisson almost douhted Jils own stern diagnosis. 






C0RINNE*8 VOW. 


39 


rumor, perhaps, and your father may not have sailed. The good 
God may have kept him.” 

From* what ? ” Corinne found voice to question, though the 
little room seemed swaying about her. Monsieur, you must tell me. 
Eemember, mamma is dying — and — and there is no one but me 
to — to — take papa’s place. What — what has happened to Ulmpe- 
ratrice f Quick, in God’s name speak ! ” 

Mademoiselle, my dear mademoiselle, then, if I must tell 
you, there has been a disaster — a frightful disaster. The news 
came last night to me by letter from Marseilles, but I did not 
know — that — that you were concerned. The steamer UImperatrice 
was wrecked on the rocks off the Balearic Islands four days ago. 
A boat-load of the women and children, who were first cared for, 
reached Barcelona only yesterday.” 

And the rest — the brave men — my father ! Go on, monsieur, 
go on.” 

The ship went down, mademoiselle, and — and no one else 
has been heard of. It is feared — that all are lost.” 

^^That we must Jcnoiv/' said Corinne, in a sharp, strained 
voice. We must send out and search the sea, the shore. Mon- 
sieur, monsieur, you must help me, you must see to this. Spare 
no time, no trouble, no money. Papa may be saved yet, even yet. 
There are strong boats, brave sailors, down upon the shore. Send 
them all out, monsieur; offer them any reward. Oh, for God’s 
sake, act, monsieur, act quickly, and we will pay anything you ask, 
thousands, tens of thousands if they be needed.” 

"Mademoiselle, my dear mademoiselle, I will do this if you 
wish.” Monsieur Lafitte’s importance was all gone, and he was 
tearful with pity and sympathy. " But if it were possible for you 
to listen to me calmly, mademoiselle — ^to listen to reason.” 

" Yes, yes, I can listen. I am listening, monsieur. Only — papa, 
0 God, my poor papa ! Even now he may be struggling with the 
waves, the winds, tossing on a raft or a spar, with no one to help 
him, to save him. 0 monsieur, the thought drives me mad ; let 
us go to the shore and send them out. There is Antoine Lemar, 
with his little felucca, and the brothers Kameau, with their strong 


40 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


fishing -boat, and there are Jacques and Leon and Pierrot, who 
fish far out in the sea. They will all go if I offer them a year’s 
earnings in American gold. 0 monsieur, come, let us send them 
at once.” 

''Ah, pauvre enfant! She is mad, she is mad,” murmured 
good Monsieur Lafitte under his breath. He had expected 
shrieks, hysterics, swooning, perhaps, but not despairing energy 
like this. ^^We will go, mademoiselle, then, if you wish it,” he 
continued, soothingly, but you are white, you are cold, you are 
trembling; let me call Madame Lafitte, who will bring a glass of 
her cordial.” 

^^No, no, nothing,” was the answer; “there is no time to 
wait ; come, monsieur, come to the wharves, to the shore.” 

And without waiting for her companion’s slower movements, 
Corinne herself sped forward on her hopeless mission. Down the 
steep, rugged street, past the market-place, where lingered a few 
straggling venders of herbs and fruit and poultry, by the little 
thatched cabins that clustered on the edge of the cliffs, like the 
nests of sea-birds, by the church, where only four days ago she 
had knelt at Jack Euthven’s side, all unconscious of the black 
shadow that even then, perhaps, had fallen upon her life’s young 
day. 

Oh, the mocking brightness of the sunshine, the mocking 
whisper of the breeze, the mocking music of the sea as it rippled 
that day in gladness to her feet ! 

Down still farther, down the rocks flew the half-maddened 
girl, and now she stood on the narrow stretch of sand and shell 
below the cliffs, where the boats were drawn up, and the sails and 
nets outspread to dry or mend, and the air was heavy, not with 
the sweetness of the flowering earth above, but with coarse, fishy 
odors, and the strong, briny breath of the sea. Corinne had never 
been down here before, for there was a smoother road that led to 
the stretch of silvery beach, beyond which the great Columbia 
had lain at anchor in the harbor. This was the fishing shore, 
from which the sturdy sons of the cliffs went forth to battle with 
the winds and the waves for their scant livelihood. Half a dozen 


C0RINNW8 VOW. 


41 


of them were gathered here to-day ; brown, brawny, horny-handed, 
strong-limbed toilers of the sea. Stretched on the wet sands 
among their nets and sails and cordage, they were smoking and 
chatting gaily, while in their midst, seated upon an upturned 
boat, in his broad-brimmed hat and shabby soutane, was good 
Pere Antoine, who thus visited without ceremony the wanderers 
of his flock. 

At sight of the good old priest, the strain that was upon Corinne 
seemed to relax. Ah! here was a friend, a friend even on this 
strange shore — a friend and a father still. 

Mon pere, mon pere’" she cried huskily, stretching out her 
hands to him, while the men started up in amazement at the 
presence of the beautiful mademoiselle Americaine in this rough 
place. 0 mon pere, help me, pity me 1 Papa, poor papa, is 
lost I Lost in this cruel sea. I have come to beg these brave men to 
go search for him. We are rich; we will give them all the gold they 
ask.” 

Wait, mademoiselle, wait,” said the excited Monsieur Lafltte, 
who had come panting down the cliff road to her side. Let me 
talk to them, let me talk.” And then arose a babel of exclamations 
and ejaculations, while Corinne, pale, breathless, dazed, stood 
trembling and only half comprehending it, until Pere Antoine’s 
kindly touch was laid upon her arm, his soothing voice reached 
her ear. 

My daughter, my poor daughter, the good Monsieur Lafltte 
will do all that is wise, all that is possible. And you — ^you will come 
with me. The good God has work for you, has duty for you, my 
child. Eemember the poor mother, who is trembling on the 
threshold of eternity. Come, my child, let us kneel before the 
altar, and ask Him who dwells there for courage, for strength to 
bow to His will.” 

Ah ! the good cure was touching chords now to which Corinne’s 
whole young life had been attuned. Like a child she turned at 
his voice and followed him up the cliff road to the church, to the 
altar, where, only four days ago, she had laid love’s first flowers 
in their dewy bloom. How, as she fell on her knees, the dry 


42 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


despair, that seemed to parch her spirit like a breath from the 
desert, gave way to a saving flood, and the tears of a first anguish 
poured forth at the Sorrowing Mother’s feet. 

And the pure libation from a spotless heart was accepted, 
for even as she turned from the church, with good Pere Antoine 
still in his fatherly solicitude at her side, they were met by a 
messenger from the Villa de Sante. 

Mademoiselle, madame, your mother, has sent for you, and 
she says will you beg also M. le Cure to come to her, for she 
would prepare for death, which she feels is near.” 

Mamma, poor mamma ! 0 Father, thank God that she has 
sent for you. But how can I tell her ? What can I tell her ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Pere Antoine, gently. Let the poor weak 
soul depart in peace. Do not crush her with this blow in her hour 
of fear and terror. Ah, no, my child, it might throw her into 
despair — despair and anguish for those whom she must leave 
fatherless, friendless. Tell her nothing, my child. It is for you 
to be strong, brave, silent. God will guide you, help you, support 
you. Ah, my child, remember you have a Father still — One whose 
love never fails.” 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE VOW. 

The lamp burned low in the death chamber. Pere Antoine 
had come and gone, and the lingering fragrance of incense and 
extinguished tapers mingled with the strange, heavy odors that 
told the doctors had been using the last and most desperate 
efforts of science to keep aglow the vital spark of heavenly 
flame” in its beautiful earthly tenement. 

Margie had been sent sobbing to bed in the care of sympa- 
thizing, warm-hearted ladies. Huldah, worn out with serving 
and watching, nodded in a great armchair in the corner, while 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


43 


So0ur Celestine, the skilled nurse, whom, in these latter days, l.he 
doctors had insisted upon, paced to and fro in the dim corridor, 
saying her rosary, waiting to be called when needed by the one 
only watcher whom the dying woman would not bear out of 
sight, Corinne, who sat like a statue of snow beside the bed. 

Three times had she tottered nearly fainting from the room, 
under the strain of a suspense and repression too terrible to be 
borne, and each time the cry of the dying woman had brought 
her back to her side. 

‘‘My child, we will tell you the truth,’’ Pere Antoine had 
answered, when last she had striven to voice her anguished ques- 
tionings. “Do not cling to hope for your father. There were 
boats sent out by the Coast Service at the first news of the disas- 
ter. They have scoured the bays, the shores, the sea, for fifty 
miles around the spot where UImperatrice foundered. They 
found the drifting wreck of a long-boat, nothing more.” 

And with this knell sounding in her ears, striking its despair- 
ing note in her heart, Corinne had to sit by her dying step- 
mother’s side, white and calm as the marble angel over a tomb. 

The room was very still. Even the musical tick of the little 
French clock on the mantel had been silenced by the nervous 
command of the sick woman, whose moments it had seemed 
gaily counting away. 

Nothing moved save the ghostly shadows cast by the trees 
without the open windows, shadows that seemed to wave and 
beckon from the lofty ceiling, the corniced walls. 

For several hours Madame Meridith had been almost silent. 
The piteous cry of “Arthur, Arthur ! why does he not come ? Oh, 
how cruel, how unkind he is thus to neglect me ! ” had been 
hushed. Perhaps it was the lull before the final struggle; per- 
haps the holier calm of Sacramental peace, that had fallen upon 
the feeble, frighted soul. 

“ Corinne,” she whispered, at last, and the gentle watcher 
bent forward with wine and water to moisten the parched lips — 
“ your father, has he come yet ? ” 

“No, mamma,” was the low, steady answer. 


44 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


“Then — then I will not live to see him. Corinne, I must 
speak — to you — in his place.^^ 

“ Yes, mamma, if you wish.” 

“ It — it is about Margie — my child, my darling.” The feeble 
voice grew sharp and strained. “ Oh, I have tried to live, so that 
I could claim a promise, a vow, from him, her father. My God, 
to think of what is before her, my beautiful one; to think she 
may be put away as you were, Corinne, among strangers, without 
any joy or gladness or love, in her young life ! ” 

“ Mamma, you mistake. I — my life has been blessed, most 
happy.” 

“ I know, I know ” — the speaker’s voice grew querulous and 
impatient — “happy for you, perhaps, but for Margie, child of 
love, of sunshine, of beauty, it would be misery. She would 
droop, fade, perish, in that cold, grave, loveless place. She must 
not go — she shall not. 0 my God, how can I go — how can I die — 
and leave her, my child, my own beautiful darling? ” And the icy 
hands were clinched despairingly on the counterpane; the white 
waxen mask that seemed settling on the beautiful face was riven 
with lines of anguish; the livid lips trembled into a piteous cry. 

“ Mamma, poor mamma ! ” It was to Corinne as if another 
voice spoke the pitying words. “ You must trust her to God our 
Father who is in heaven.” 

“' Yes, yes ; that was what the old priest said, ^ Her Father in 
heaven, her Father in heaven ! ’ Why did he say it, Corinne ? 
Why? Because he knows that fathers on earth change, and grow 
cold, and forget. He knows that they put other wives, other 
children, in the place of the old. Ah, yes ; he knows, he knows.” 

“Mamma, no; it was not that Pere Antoine meant, I am 
sure.” 

“ Yes, yes; it is true; it is true. Do I not know? Did I not 
come between you and your father, Corinne ? I, in my youth and 
beauty, long ago. And now, now, Margie my darling may be 
thrust aside by another woman. 0 my God ! that I might live, 
live only to see your father for one hour, to beg of him, with my 
last, my dying breath, a promise, an oath, that this shall not be : 


COBINNE^S VOW. 


45 


that Margie shall be first — first always; that no other shall stand 
before her in his home — in his heart.’^ 

" Selfish in life and death/^ The words of Jack Ruthven 
seemed to echo dully in Corinne’s ear, but she was beyond indig- 
nation or resentment now. 

A strange torpor seemed to lock all her being. She must not 
think, she must not feel, or she would shriek out madly to this 
poor dying mother that she was widowed, her child fatherless; 
that there was no Joy, no hope, no love, no gladness on earth — 
only death, death for all. 

But the feeble voice, shrill with dying strength, kept on: 

You must give me this promise, Corinne — give it in your 
father’s name. Tell him I, who gave him my young life, claimed 
this vow from him with my last breath. Tell him that you gave it 
to save the wife, the wife he loved, from dying in despair. Never 
has he refused me anything, Corinne, never. He would not refuse 
me now, were he here to speak.” 

Oh! the pity, the horror, the mockery of it all. As Corinne 
listened, she seemed to see the great depths of the sea open be- 
fore her, and down, far down, amid strange waving plants and 
darting, gleaming creatures, the strong, kind face she remem- 
bered, looking up at her with a pitying smile at this farce of life 
and love in which she still must act her part. 

Here on the cross I ” And with trembling hand the dying 
woman thrust forward the crucifix that had been left on the little 
stand by her bed. 

Mamma, I can not, I can not,” whispered the unhappy girl. 

For myself I can promise ; I can vow ; but not — not for an- 
other.” 

^^Vow this, then,” cried the selfish mother, despairingly: 
‘^That — that — ^you will take my place to her, Corinne ; that if her 
father should change, should grow cold, that you — you will be 
true to her, true as mothers are to their own. Vow that, while 
she needs you, no other duty or love or tie shall come between 
you, Corinne. Vow this, and I will die in peace, for I know you 
will keep faith with Heaven and with me.” 


46 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


There was a moment’s solemn pause. Only the shadows in the 
death chamber moved and beckoned as the night wind swayed 
the trees without. To Corinne, wrought upon by anguish, repres- 
sion, suspense, until her own young life seemed dull, chilled, 
deadened forever, this wild, selfish appeal came like the voice of 
Duty, the voice of God. 

She had been reared in an atmosphere of self-effacement, self- 
sacrifice. She had been taught that there were supreme moments 
when God spoke, and heart and soul and will must hear and obey. 

And was not this such a moment? Standing on the borders 
of Eternity, with the dead and the dying crying out to her, was 
not this the call ” which Pere Jean told her she would hear 
when she reached the life path for which Heaven had destined 
her. 

Corinne,” continued the querulous voice, more feebly, will 
you not promise me this, Corinne ? You have thought sometimes 
of — of — being a nun, I know; of giving your life to the sick and 
the poor and the orphan. Will you not live for your sister instead ? 
Will you not promise me that, while she needs a mother’s love, you 
will give it to her; that you will take on yourself no other duty, 
no other vow, no other tie that will separate you from her ? ” 

^^Ho other duty, no other tie that will separate me from her? 
Is — is this what — what you ask of me, mamma ? ” asked Corinne, 
slowly. 

Yes, yes ; oh ! it is so little to promise ; you are so grave, so 
good, so wise, Corinne. Oh, in God’s name, give me your word, 
your vow that you will be true and faithful to my child, that you 
will give her a mother’s care, a mother’s tenderness ; that nothing 
shall come between you — no new friend, or work, or love, or vow. 
Promise me this, Corinne, that I may die in peace.” 

^‘1 promise,” answered the young girl steadily. Mamma, 
I promise that while Margie needs me she shall be my first 
thought, my first duty ; that until I can give her into the keeping 
of a stronger, nearer, holier love than mine, I will take upon 
myself no other vow, no other tie. Mamma, poor mamma, is not 
that enough ? ” 



There was a quiet funeral. 






I 

&* ,, 


». . -'>x di-.w v 

% ^ •/ %Sr 


^ j/. *‘ ** - ' 

, f.i ‘ . ff 




'' ■ Biy?r 

I i m ^ M . 


• - * t 

. i 


♦ '-i! 


■' 4 / ""'- 

Au. r .'j 

* I.J* 

* *: 


j A A‘“ 

rj .-\ . 



<1 


ijk#' 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


49 


Yes, yes, enough,^^ answered the dying woman, as with a 
gasping sigh she turned wearily on her pillow. It is enough,’^ 
she added, closing her eyes and drifting off into semi-conscious- 
ness, in which she soon began to babble pitifully of the gowns 
and laces and jewels that had been so much to her in life. 

Silver brocade ? Ah, yes, Madame Louise ; let it be the richest 
gown you can make ; plenty of lace, for I am growing a little thin. 
Not white flowers to-night ; faugh, no ; they are like death. Tell 
them to send roses — roses — x4merican Beauties; I care not what 
they cost ; and bring me my diamonds, Fifine. I will wear them all 
to-night.^^ And so, muttering and whispering on, in ghastly echo 
of the gay refrain to which she had lived, the dying woman tossed 
restlessly about until, in the gray dawn of the morning, she started 
up from her pillow with a strong cry of terror. It has come, it 
has come. Corinne, my child, remember! God, God have 
mercy on me ! ” And then, with a slight struggle, she fell back 
in Corinne^s arms, and all was over. The thoughtless, careless 
spirit had gone to meet its Judge. 

There was a quiet funeral. The simple villagers hesitated to 
intrude upon the few mourners who gathered in the little grave- 
yard on the cliffs, where the beautiful American lady, who had 
seemed like a princess among them, was laid to rest. But all 
Saint Pierre was athrill in sympathy for the young strangers, 
now doubly orphaned, and kindly eyes wet with tears followed 
the girlish forms that, shrouded in deep mourning, walked behind 
the flower-laden bier, borne, as was the custom, through the 
steep, rugged streets to the little chapel on the cliffs. Max stalked 
beside his young mistress unchided, and, stretched upon the grass, 
seemed to watch with a new sense of responsibility the young 
mourners. 

Then, when the grave had closed over the frail form whose 
weakness she had sheltered to the last, Corinne’s strength gave 
way. For long, weary days and nights she herself drifted on the 
strange dream ocean that surges between life and death. Tossing 
in wrecked ships, borne in storm-driven barks over white, seeth- 
ing seas, sinking down, down in dark, fathomless depths, amid 


50 


CORINNE’S VOW. 


tangles of seaweed and sponge and shell, and all the flotsam of 
the sea that she had noticed with curious eyes since her coming 
to Saint Pierre, and, again, floating softly on over moonlit waters, 
past grassy cliffs, starred with violets. It was a long, wild jour- 
ney that the gentle, weary spirit took before it turned again 
slowly, surely, to the shore of life. 

But it seemed only the pale ghost of the sweet girl who had 
laid her violets six weeks ago on the chapel altars, that now sat 
in the pretty drawing-room of the villa, glancing over the basket 
heaped with mail that had accumulated during her illness, and 
which she was now, for the first time, allowed to see. 

Letters in numbers were here, cards and notes of condolence 
from friends in London, Paris, Nice, Eome, all the gay capitals 
through which she and her fair stepmother had flitted during the 
past six months, beautiful visions, kindly and tenderly remem- 
bered. Here, too, were letters from St. TJrsule, breathing sweet 
lessons of resignation ; letters, too, from J ack Ruthven, that made 
the reader’s pale cheek flush, like a dawn-touched lily. The Co- 
lumbia was far away. Not until he reached Hong Kong had the 
writer learned of the double tragedy that had darkened his be- 
loved’s life. 

Oh, that I could be with you in the darkness of this great 
grief, Corinne; that you could lean upon a strong human love in 
this hour of trial and feel that you are not alone in the awful 
gloom. I know that you are upheld by your beautiful faith, my 
sweet saint, but do not turn utterly from earth for comfort. Re- 
member there is a poor human heart aching for you, bleeding for 
3''ou — a heart that would gladly take upon itself every pang that 
pierces yours.” 

Corinne read as one who hears on a wintry day the song of a 
belated bird in the leafless trees, a bird doomed to freeze and die. 

For, with the flrst return of consciousness there had come to 
her a clear realization of the new obligations that solemn death- 
bed promise had entailed upon her. Margie — pretty, wilful, way- 
ward Margie — must henceforth be the central interest of her life. 
She must listen to no love whisper that could lure her from this 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


51 


charge ; she raiist take upon herself no tie that would bind her to 
other duties; she must live for her orphaned sister, as she had 
vowed — until she could give her into the keeping of a stronger 
love in the far future. 

To her dead father even more than the dying mother had 
Corinne pledged herself, and that vow must be kept. Neither into 
the flower-strewn path, where love called, nor into the sweet 
peace of the cloister could she turn now. She must tread the 
barren path of sacriflce unveiled, unconsecrated, bearing a moth- 
er’s burdens without a mother’s joys or crown. 

Yet Corinne lingered over Jack Euthven’s letter long to-day. 
She was still weak and broken by the storm that had swept over 
her; she would be braver with returning strength, but to-day 
blinding tears blurred the manly lines, and she almost forgot 
there were other letters unread — business letters in which she, who 
had never known business cares or responsibilities, took little 
interest. 

Her father had been the senior member of a large mer- 
cantile house in New York, and the last of his immediate family. 
Of his business affairs, his connections, his distant relatives, 
Corinne, who had spent all her life since childhood in a foreign 
land, knew practically nothing. 

It was with blank, bewildered amazement that she glanced 
over the letters which she had left to the last. 

Suspended payment, stringency of the money market, un- 
fortunate combination of circumstances” — what did all this mean ? 
And the bills, the unpaid bills; the notice from the bankers in 
Paris, who respectfully prayed to inform Madame Meridith her 
account was overdrawn. Corinne could only touch the bell and 
send a messenger for Monsieur Lafitte to solve these enigmas for 
her. 

The little notary came up smiling, but troubled. He was re- 
joiced to see mademoiselle so recovered; he and Madame Lafitte 
had been truly in despair at her illness; they had called every day 
to inquire and offer their poor services. 

Believe me, I am grateful, monsieur; everybody has been 


62 


CORINNE’8 VOW, 


most kind/^ Corinne answered. Now I must fling myself upon 
your mercy again, for I am but a child in these matters. Will 
you explain these business letters to me ? They sound to me as if 
there were something wrong — some money troubles which I can 
not understand.^^ 

^^Mademoiselle, unfortunately, yes; it is so.” Monsieur La- 
fitte paused to clear his throat. There have been money trou- 
bles mademoiselle has been too ill to hear. What injustice, what 
robbery, there may have been I can not say, but since your father’s 
most sad death his Arm has suspended payment.” 

“You mean — ^that — it — it has failed,” exclaimed Corinne, 
incredulously. “ Papa’s firm failed ! ” 

“ Unfortunately, yes, mademoiselle. Doubtless monsieur 
your father’s loss was irreparable. He had withdrawn a large 
amount in gold for investment abroad; it was lost with him in 
UImperatrice. Then there came what you Americans call 
^ paneek,’ mademoiselle — this terrible American ' paneek,’ which 
shakes the world, which makes the fortunes go and come like the 
lightning flash. Ah, sacre, but it is a frightful thing, this Ameri- 
can ^ paneek.’ ” 

“ But — but ” — Corinne’s brain grew dizzy at these tidings ; she 
felt there were dark depths all around her, unsounded, unknown, 
and that she was tottering on their verge, helpless, friendless, alone, 
except for Margie’s clinging hand — “ monsieur, these bills, these 
accounts, this notice from Lavasseur Freres, in Paris? We had 
money there, a large sum, for papa was ever generous, lavish 
to us.” 

“Ah, mademoiselle” — Monsieur Lafitte shook his head — • 
“pardon if I say too lavish, too generous. Madame’s expendi- 
ture has been frightful. Ah, very much I fear there is nothing 
left; but I will see, mademoiselle. I will come to-morrow, and 
together we will see what can be done. Believe me, I am at 
mademoiselle’s service — for everything.” 

And Monsieur Lafitte bowed himself out, quite unnerved by 
an interview that had stirred his sympathies more than he dared 
to show. For the great “paneek” that had shaken the stock 



Corinne and Margie entered the little railway station." 






\ 4 • 



. '.. ,v ■’. ;-5' , -A' ,: 






■'M, . ,. 

■ v<''. ' 


■■ ^ '■ .iii ■ ■ 



‘ t 


• 'I 



i' "■■■ 


^ f,'- ■•■- ' 



•*•'■ • 

« 


‘A; 


s*.-* i' '“iii '*?!“•■■. r' ' ■■- 
- 'j^' • jw , ’. ' '»* • ^ '-(^ 5 *'• 

-■/^«t,.; ,t »5 

(*■ .1 • - • ‘-if 'sSn’’* -W. 4 » ‘ :^f^- 


M 



* B 


k 


r 4 ■'• ' .wn*- ^ 

;- fi' 

•„« V 

t^?w 5 *'' ' ' ' ^ '•' ' 


ri'y 

•vr,.- "ss/ . 

.' vV'' - / '■ < 


Jf 




,>• * 




. ^ t* 


* ^ 






A» 


I > A 

W . ..» \‘ 

% ' 

i 

V. . 


- 14 ^- r *i 


Vt 


ii *. t ^ ^ ' 

■ *1 

■ , 


. >kf.lir: - ■ ■* 





CORINNE’8 VOW. 


55 


markets of London and Paris had sent a warning tremor even to 
little Saint Pierre, where there was a vague impression that the 
whole American republic had collapsed. 

And, indeed, to Corinne and Margie’s fortunes the financial 
crisis was simply overwhelming. Without money or credit, they 
found themselves alone and helpless in a strange land. 

The butterfly friends who had fluttered around the Meri- 
diths in the golden summer of their prosperity seemed to have 
forgotten the orphaned girls now, or to remember them only with 
empty words of sympathy. All but one. Buried under the busi- 
ness letters which ■ Monsieur Lafitte and Corinne found so hope- 
less, was a sealed and perfumed missive which had escaped their 
notice. Margie spied it where it had fallen to the floor. 

Corinne, look, look, a letter from Madame Lamar ! ” And 
Corinne broke the seal to read, in a warm-hearted woman’s simple 
English : 

My poor, dear child : 

I have heard all. Come to me in your sorrow. I would have 
been with you but that I have been ill myself and forbidden by 
the doctors to leave this old Chateau of Mont Aigle, which Gustave 
has rented for a year by the same doctor’s orders. Ah, I am do- 
ing penance for all past gins, my Saint Corinne, in this wil- 
derness. Not a civilized being within ten miles, and now Gus- 
tave has rushed off to America to look after our affairs, and has 
left me, surrounded by brigands and cutthroats, on this moun- 
tain eyrie. 

Come to me, poor children, and let us comfort each other, 
and if that dear old Huldah is within reach bring her with you, 
I implore you. I am living on oil and chestnuts, and Heaven 
knows what else, for the mysteries of my kitchen I dare not 
investigate. I would give my last cent for an honest American 
meal. Take the train to Laroche, whence they will bring you up 
here on the little donkeys, that alone can climb our rocky road, 
and come as soon as you are able to. 

Your loving friend, 


Elise Lamar.’^ 


56 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


It is the call of a warm, true heart, Margie,^’ said Corinne. 

We will go.” 

And so it was that, one bright evening, followed by kindly 
looks and wishes of the humble folks of the village, laden with 
flowers from Madame Lafitte’s garden, blessed by good Pere 
Antoine, Corinne and Margie entered the little railway station, 
that seemed to link Saint Pierre to the busy, outer world, and took 
the train for Laroche. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE TOWER OF THE EAGLES. 

Adieu^ adieu. Saint Pierre ! ” cried Margie, waving her 
hand from the railway carriage. Ah, poor mamma, poor 

mamma ! ” And the child burst into a passion of tears. 0 
Corinne, Corinne, how can I go away and leave poor mamma 
lying there all alone ! ” 

But Margie had been in grief and gloom for fully six weeks 
now, with the exception of some cheering intervals on the cliffs 
with Max, who was happily oblivious of the solemn decorum 
befitting the situation, and had lured his young mistress into an 
occasional race and frolic. And as Margie was not yet fourteen, 
the revulsion of feeling was coming on, the rainbows of youth 
were beginning to arch the clouds. True, she was absolutely deso- 
late, as all the sympathetic souls in Saint Pierre had assured her. 
True, she had neither father nor mother and she must wear a 
black dress, and Corinne had told her there could be no more 
frou-frous or bonbons or trinkets, for they were quite poor now, 
since papa had lost all his money with his life. But they were 
going to dear Madame Lamar, and a donkey ride up a mountain 
must be an altogether thrilling affair, and Hubert and Estelle 
were delightful companions for an autumn holiday, and now that 
they were so poor it would be quite impossible for her to go to 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


57 


school, which was a compensation for many evils. And with 
these consolatory reflections vaguely present in her mind, Margie 
was soon pressing her pretty tip-tilted nose to the railway car- 
riage window, and delightedly watching the changing scene as 
the train whirled past the olive and lemon groves, up the vine- 
clad hills, into the mountainous regions beyond, where the great 
rock-ribbed heights rose in flercer, wilder strength to guard the 
shore. It was nearly sunset when they reached Laroche. 

Down in the deep gorge through which the iron road cut its 
way all was shadow, but the lances of the sunset were gleaming 
on the wooded cliffs and hills, while still higher rose great white 
peaks, shimmering and glowing in the fading light like sun- 
kissed clouds. 

Laroche de Lascari had been the original name of the old 
feudal town, built, indeed, on and of the ^‘rock.^’ The gaily 
painted railway station was the only modern thing in the place. 
Up from this little Swiss chalet, by which the train thundered, 
the old town straggled with its stone houses, vine grown and gray, 
its broken arches and crumbling walls, the outgrowth of the cen- 
turies when the eagles of Lascari made their eyrie on these heights 
— those powerful princes who for hundreds of years had ruled 
the southern shores, and dispensed stern justice untempered by 
mercy to all who disputed their sway. 

Corinne had telegraphed her coming, and there was a grizzled, 
weather-beaten old man waiting, with two gaily caparisoned 
donkeys for the young ladies, and a queer low cart, on which 
Huldah was to ride with the luggage, which was to go by the 
Jonger road around the mountain, in the charge of a dark-haired, 
beetle-browed native. 

Wild with delighted excitement, Margie was soon mounted on 
her sure-footed little burro,” but Corinne hesitated. Can I 
not ride with Huldah ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ 0 Corinne, no, no,” pleaded Margie. The dear little 
donkey is so much nicer. Oh, try him, Corinne, please ! ” 

^^It will be much better, mademoiselle,” said old Antoine. 
^^The greater road is long and rough, and — and — it is late. 


58 


CORINNE’8 row. 


Mademoiselle will do better to take little Pippo here, who is quite 
sure and safe.^’ 

Corinne felt there was a caution in the old man’s words 
that she would be unwise to disregard. And, indeed, there 
seemed a menace in these frowning heights that repelled confi- 
dence. 

Saint Pierre had been old, sleepy, tranquil, but there was some- 
thing fierce and formidable here. The black-browed men lounging 
about the streets and station seemed surly and silent, and stared 
sullenly after Antoine and his charges as they took their way up 
the rocky heights. The old man walked beside the two donkeys, 
cracking his whip, while Max stalked along behind his young 
mistresses, in evident disapproval of the situation. The narrow 
path was a very step-ladder of stone, leading higher and higher 
until the little town was left far below in the shadow, and on a 
beautiful sunset peak, laved by the blue Mediterranean, rose the 
Chateau of Mont Aigle, the eyrie whence the lords of Lascari had 
watched the coast in the far-otf past. 

The ancient Tower of the Eagles ” still stood, surrounded by 
a graceful modern balcony, but all else had been changed. The 
crumbling old walls of the castle had been rebuilt fifty years ago, 
the rock terraced, shrubs and trees planted, until the old eyrie of 
the Lascaris was a fair and smiling mountain home. 

Madame Lamar, with Hubert and Estelle, were on the stone 
steps of the chateau watching for their guests, and, while the 
young people rushed forward with merry shouts to meet their old 
playmate, Corinne dismounted from her little donkey, to be 
clasped in a tender, tearful embrace. 

My poor child, my dear, dear child ! I have not slept for 
nights, thinking of your trouble. Thank Heaven you are safe 
here with me ! I was so fearful you would not come. Eun away, 
my little ones. Take Margie to see your pigeons and your chick- 
ens and your goats. Supper will be in an hour. And you, 
my dear” — to Corinne — “ you wish, no doubt, to go to your 
room and rest, after your frightful journey up to this wilder- 
ness.” 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


59 


A wilderness ! said Corinne, pausing in the pillared portico 
and looking around her delightedly. My dear Madame Lamar, 
it is a paradise.” 

A paradise ! ” Madame Elise shrugged the pretty shoulders 
gowned in the latest Parisian negligee. So the doctors told me. 
So Gustave believed when he rented the place. So I thought 
when I first saw it in its summer glory. Ah, my dear, you do not 
know its loneliness, its terrors. If I could fill it with guests ! But 
that the doctors forbid. My servants have been frightened away. 
1 have not even a maid to do my hair. And such cooking, my 
dear ! Heavens, such cooking ! Miss Carson, Estelle’s governess, 
left last Monday with dyspepsia, from which she will never re- 
cover. But all these horrors you will learn soon enough. Come 
and see your room.” And thus chattering on, Corinne’s hostess 
led her through a broad stone hall, brightened with gay rugs and 
rich tapestries and cushioned couches, and up a stairway that 
wound past a great mullioned window, to a gallery above, whence 
opened as soft and rosy-hued a nest as was ever made for a home- 
less dove. 

Corinne sank down upon the pretty couch and burst into tears. 
For the first time in all these weary, dreadful weeks the strain 
seemed to have relaxed, the burden to be lifted by a tender, 
loving hand. 

That is right, my dear ; cry, cry your fill. It will do you 
good. Oh, you looked like a white, carven saint, and not like a 
woman at all, before these blessed tears came. Cry, dear, all 
you can.” 

And Corinne did cry on that warm, true heart, until the dull, 
hopeless pain of her own seemed eased into an unlooked-for 
peace. 

Then began strange, sweet days of rest, the calm after the 
storm. Here, in this old eagles’ eyrie, Corinne seemed lifted up 
beyond the clouds of earth into a dreamland of peace. After the 
fierce tempest that had swept over her young life, leaving her 
orphaned and almost penniless, the troubles” that Madame 
Lamaf poured into her ear seemed trifles light as air. Huldah 


60 


CORINNE’S VOW, 


took her place in the big stone-paved kitchen as cook, and Corinne 
herself, who had been taught to concoct many dainty dishes at 
St. Ursule’s, often aided her in tempting the capricious appetite 
of the mistress of Mont Aigle. 

Those blessed nuns ! What didnT they teach you ? ” askad 
Madame Lamar one day when Corinne’s skilful fingers arranged 
her beautiful hair as no maid had ever done. Such an omelet 
soufile as you sent up to me this morning would have made any 
restaurateur’s reputation forever. Corinne, I am a selfish wretch, 
I know, to want to bury you alive with me in this fearful solitude, 
but if you will take Miss Carson’s place at four hundred dollars a 
year — until — until you can do better, my dear, I will be the most 
grateful of women.” 

But — Margie ! ” said Corinne. Dear friend, I feel your 
kindness deeply. If — if you will only give me two hundred and let 
me keep Margie — ” 

^^Keep Margie! Why, of course, my child. But as for the — 
two hundred — I will not hear of such a thing. You are worth a 
dozen poor Miss Carsons to me now. It will only be for a time. 
Soon your affairs will be arranged. I have written to Gustave, 
and he will see to it that you have your rights, my dear. All can 
not be swept away. There must be something of your fortune.” 

‘^Nothing,” answered Corinne, “I have heard. Monsieur 
Lafitte has heard from papa’s firm. Papa had a large amount of 
gold with him on Ulmpkatrice, which, if invested abroad, might 
have saved his credit. But now all is lost. Margie and I have 
but five hundred francs between us. So I must work for her, for 
myself.” 

Work for Margie ! Nonsense ! ” said Madame Lamar, quite 
sharply. Don’t be fool enough to undertake any such responsi- 
bility. She has uncles and aunts in America. Send her to them, 
my dear. I will write to Gustave to see about her. It is not fair 
that you should be burdened. And you, my ^lear, I love you; you 
are invaluable to me. Stay with me and my children on whatever 
terms you please, until — until — ah, well, I had eyes last spring, my 
dear — until a brave sailor we know of comes to claim you from me.” 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


61 


Corinne flushed, and paled again. Dear friend, you are 
very good, but I can not — I can not give up Margie. I promised 
mamma on her death-bed that I would take her place, that I 
would live for my sister, that nothing should come between us.” 

Nothing come between you ! ” fairly gasped Madame Lamar. 

My blessed child, were you mad to make such a promise? Was 
Edith Meridith cruel and selfish enough to ask it? What if you 
marry ? ” 

I will not marry,” answered Corinne, quietly. 

Not marry ! ” exclaimed the lady, in dismay. Then you 
intend to become a nun, Corinne ? ” 

Neither can I become a nun. My life belongs to Margie 
until I can give her into the keeping of a stronger, closer love 
than mine. This is the solemn promise that I made, that I must 
keep.” 

It is simply barbarous,” burst forth Madame Lamar, indig- 
nantly. It is equal to the Indian widow’s suttee. To sacrifice 
your fresh, beautiful young life, with all its hopes and joys, to a 
dead woman’s selfish whim ! Never marry ! You left lonely and 
loveless for a wild little madcap of a half-sister ! Corinne, listen 
to me, I beg of you, and forget this wild, foolish vow. You were 
hysterical, you did not know what you were saying. You won’t 
send off that splendid young Ruthven for a mad promise like 
this ? ” 

I must,” answered the girl, steadily. I was waiting for 
God’s call, and it seemed to come to me from my dead father, 
from Margie’s dying mother’s lips. Dear madame, I can not trust 
Margie to her mother’s people. They are not Catholics. The 
child would lose her faith; they would have no interest, no real 
care for her, as I will have. So if you will give me Miss Carson’s 
place, I will take it gladly at two hundred a year, with Margie as 
my encumbrance.” And Corinne spoke with such gentle firmness 
that Madame Lamar was forced to be content and say no more. 

Miss Carson’s successor soon proved herself a quiet but gra- 
cious power in the mountain household. Hubert, who had never 
been very strong, found study made easy and pleasant for him. 


62 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


for this new teacher needed neither the desk, nor blackboard, nor 
schoolroom that Miss Carson considered absolute necessities 
for the pursuit of knowledge. Out on the sunlit terraces, the 
porticos, the airy balcony of the Tower of the Eagles, Corinne held 
her classes, diversifying her lessons with legends and poetry, that 
held the dreamy, delicate boy of twelve enthralled, while Estelle, 
who was two years older, took up the music that Miss Carson had 
made hateful to her with new enthusiasm, now that the simple 
melodies of the old masters replaced the monotonous exercises ” 
which had wearied fingers and soul. 

Even the wild-eyed mountain maids, who had been Madame 
Lamar’s despair, grew more deft and skilful under mademoi- 
selle’s ” quiet training, and went about their work in the dairy and 
the poultry yard with unheard-of fidelity. 

Corinne’s greatest trouble was with her own encumbrance, little 
madcap Margie. Hubert might be indolent, and Estelle thought- 
less, but they had been drilled by English governesses and French 
instructresses into European ideas of obedience and respect. 

Margie was one of those enfants terribles which only the Land 
of Freedom can produce. Gay and winsome and loving, she had 
never known law or restraint. The only darling of a foolish, in- 
dulgent mother, her young life had been one glad holiday, and, 
though her bright spirit had been crushed for a while by the ter- 
rible sorrow that had fallen upon her, she seemed to have re- 
bounded with the happy elasticity of youth into wilder gaiety since 
her coming to Mont Aigle. Life in this sea-girt paradise was full of 
delicious novelty, that kept her young pulses bounding in delightful 
unrest. The pigeons, the poultry, the donkeys, the terraced gar- 
dens, the sunlit cliffs, were temptations not to be withstood, and, 
unfortunately, sisterly familiarity had robbed Corinne of all tute- 
lary terrors for this naughty little rebel. Margie planned adven- 
tures and escapades that fairly took away her slower-witted com- 
panion’s breath. Estelle was not so easily led, but twelve-year-old 
Hubert fell completely under the little witch’s spell. 

Let us take Max and go down to Laroche,” was her tempt- 
ing whisper on one bright autumn day. Colette says the grape- 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


63 


gatherers have come up from the valleys, and there is to he dancing 
and music in the market-place/’ 

But we may not go to Laroche,” would be Hubert’s answer. 

And why not ? ” asked Margie. 

Antoine has told mamma it is not safe. The men are idle and 
bad, and they are angry because papa had to turn them away 
without work. He had promised to keep them busy all winter in 
the oil mill ; but there came the trouble in America, and he had to 
shut it up, and Antoine says they are fools and do not understand.” 

What is an oil mill ? ” asked Margie, curiously. 

Where they press the olives for oil,” answered Hubert. 

Papa bought the groves all around Laroche, and built the new 
mill down by Perotte. Some day I will show it to you. It is not 
gray and old and dark like they build here, but all new and 
bright and strong, with shining wheels and vats and pressers, all 
in American way. And the country people came down from the 
hills and over the mountains to work for him. But then the money 
troubles began in America — ” 

Yes, I know,” Margie nodded. 

— and papa had to go away quickly to save his fortune and 
mamma’s, and the mill had to stop, and the olives are lying in great 
heaps, rotting, and the country people are angry, and frown and 
whisper curses on us when we pass. So Antoine has told 
mamma we must not go to Laroche, for there is hate in all their 
hearts.” 

^^Who cares?” said Margie, defiantly. Antoine can’t scare 
me with any such bogy stories, and if you were any kind of boy, 
Hubert, you wouldn’t listen to him. Goodness ! I wouldn’t be as 
poky as you and Estelle for anything. My mamma let me go every- 
where ; I never even had to ask her. She was the dearest, sweetest, 
prettiest mamma in the world, and she gave me everything. Oh, 
oh ! I can’t help crying when I think of her.” And Margie lapsed 
into very natural tears. 

Don’t,” said Hubert, sympathetically ; don’t cry, Margie.” 

Oh, oh, oh ! I can’t help it ; it is so sad and solemn and lone- 
some without my mamma. Nobody cares for me a bit.” 


64 


CORINNE'8 VOW. 


Yes, yes, they do. I care for you. Margie, don^t cry. 0 Mar- 
gie, 1^11 give you both my white pigeons if you don’t cry like that.” 

I don’t want your white pigeons,” sobbed Margie, impatiently. 

I want to go somewhere. Everybody at Saint Pierre said I ought 
to go somewhere, and have my mind distracted from my poor dead 
mamma and papa.” 

Let us go rowing, then,” said Hubert, eagerly. We will get 
old Vincent to take us in his boat to Point Saint Cyr. Ah, you 
should see the gardens there, Margie, the palms and the lemons and 
the vine arbors. Come, it is my history lesson, but I will steal away 
with you because you are in such sorrow to-day, and we will go 
with Vincent in his boat.” 

And Margie’s eyes sparkled through her tears, and soon the 
truants were scrambling down the steep cliff road to the stretch of 
silvery sand, where old Vincent’s black, weather-beaten boat lay 
tied to a half-sunken spar. 


CHAPTER VI. 

AI^ ESCAPADE. 

Old Vincent was not in sight. Margie and Hubert ran up and 
down the sands, looking for him in vain. 

He has gone with old Antoine to the railroad,” said Hubert. 

We must wait for another time.” 

And run back to Corinne, who will keep us in all day read- 
ing about French kings ! No, I will not be as stupid as you, Hu- 
bert. I care nothing for kings. We have only Presidents in my 
country; they are much nicer, and easier to remember. Come, 
since we have been naughty enough to run away, let us make the 
best of it. Corinne will not miss us for an hour. She was giving 
Estelle a music lesson when we came out. Let us get into the 
boat and row ourselves. I can do it. I have been out with my 
Cousin Jack many times. He is a lieutenant. Ah, if you could 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


65 


see him, Hubert ; so tall, so broad, so handsome ! He is like all 
Americans, who are afraid of nothing ; it is so even when they are 
boys. They are not like you, Hubert, who must ask mamma if 
you can wink an eye.^^ 

I do not ask my mamma thaV^ answered Hubert, indig- 
nantly, and I am not afraid, either. Am I not American, too ? 

Only half,^’ answered Margie, and you have learned many 
stupid French ways. It is the same with Corinne ; she, too, has 
learned the French ways. My mamma said she was so good that 
it made her sick. Come, let us get into the boat and row over to 
that island shining there in the sunshine.” 

That is San Marco,” said Hubert, as, yielding to the taunt- 
ing little temptress, he stepped into the boat. It is very far 
away.” 

Oh, it canT be,” said Margie. IVe rowed that far many 
times with my Cousin Jack. Have you ever been there?” 

No,” answered Hubert, who was bending manfully to the 
clumsy oars. It is a bad-luck place, Vincent says, for it was a 
Pirate Island long ago, when the Turks used to come down on 
these shores and steal people.” 

Steal people ! ” echoed Margie, nearly dropping her oar 
overboard in her excitement. What for ? ” 

Sometimes to kill them, sometimes to sell them as slaves.” 

Slaves ! ” cried Margie, in breathless horror. Sell white 
people for slaves ! ” 

Yes,” answered Hubert, quite pleased at being able to startle 
this boasting young American with his knowledge of local history. 

Vincent was stolen himself when he was a boy. It was long 
ago, for he is very old now ; but he was out in a boat like this with 
three other hoys, and the pirates came down upon them and car- 
ried them off.” 

— and what did they do with them ? ” Margie was rest- 
ing on her oar now in eager interest, and Hubert was letting his 
boat drift lightly on the blue water, while he continued his story. 

Took them to Morocco, where they sold them. A rich Turk 
bought Vincent. Though he is brown and bent and withered 


66 


CORINNE’8 VOW, 


now, Vincent was straight and strong then, with eyes like the 
eagle’s, for the blood of the Lascari flows in his veins, poor flsher- 
man as he is. And Abdul Hassan — that was the rich Turk’s 
name — bought him for a slave for his son, whom he was ashamed 
to own.” 

Ashamed to own his son ! Is this a real, true story, Hubert, 
or is it out of a book ? ” asked Margie, suspiciously. 

‘^Eeal, true; Vincent will tel! it to you himself,” answered 
Hubert. He says Abdul Hassan was ashamed to own his son 
because he was all bent and twisted and crippled, and he thought 
God had sent this kind of a child to him as a punishment for his 
sins. So he kept him far from the town in Africa, where he lived in 
a great big palace near the seashore, and he bought Vincent to play 
with him and wait on him. Vincent says it was the most beautiful 
place in the world. There were palms and orange trees and lemon 
trees, and fountains of white marble, and lovely little summer 
houses everywhere. And little Hassan had everything — white 
ponies and parrots and peacocks and swans, and a great black giant 
to carry him around, because he could not walk.” 

“ A black giant ! ” repeated Margie, indignantly. I don’t 
believe this is a true story at all, Hubert Lamar. There are no 
such things as giants except in story books. I suppose you will 
say next your black giant had three heads.” 

No, he didn’t,” answered Hubert, with a simplicity which 
disarmed suspicion. He only had one ; but Vincent says he had 
a gold ring in his nose and in both his ears and round his ankles, 
and he carried the big crippled boy as easily as if he had been a 
baby two years old. But when little Hassan got Vincent he 
liked him better than the ponies, or parrots, or swans, better than 
the black giant; better than anything in his palace by the sea. 
For Vincent could play with him and sing to him, and row him 
over the water, and pull him around in the little carriage, that 
was all gay with beautiful cushions; and, best of all, he could 
tell him stories such as Hassan had never heard before, of the 
good God, and His saints and angels, and all that Christian 
children know and love; for, though Vincent could not read, he 



She was giving Estelle a music lesson 






:1R' lL"WMU^J!Hiiii!i|H 


•' . ’5'^. . ■ ' f:, • ‘ . ■* 

J- ■ ■ ■ ‘ • ■' 

^ # . _ •M*‘l ^ * . • \ • < ■ 




.- » i. ' « ■'■ • ‘ • - 

. -•»*.> t «W- T. ^ *• « • / . 

y.'-: v-'-».. ■'.Sv'-'i*»''Tai»«b 

‘ -r: ^^r ;. 

. j' ^ • , O ' 

V- .1 ' -'* x 


. t 


■ '■/* ‘■*' 
X \* * ’* . '■ 


«k ^ ‘ » / • ' 

1 ^ ^ x- ' » 




- / />,'•_ V-/ 


'V'V' 

r. 


• . ^ <fci- ^ Aw . 

-u » 




f* T/<£ t«rJ^ ' JM 

BPv ,.. ^ , / ,.ifc^,‘>< ■ -v X*' 

^ i: 0 - '.- o;. ^r;-- • 


. n^/SiS *b, 


1 •. 


•T 


-'f‘- *v ^ 

’ V ^Wrr,: 




X , 


V V 


,v-V- « .. - J*/ ^ 
, ;; *. -;. . 'i. 

" ^s ■ *? W ^ r * 

-vry; jK? 






■< 


'*^ kUm 0 v^^ *** ^ ^ 1 ^ * '** ^ 


<#: ' 


I • 


■*t‘ r-'V-- A ‘, •, - 

SyitSir‘-">'r r «'"7lf^ll j 

- ft . .Tt ...^ •• *», 

I .\ * ♦ • ♦ ^ ‘ • ♦ 

>riA iK. r, . , 




V 

:j> •*** iK r, . , 

** *4 ■•' • < , •*V,«.^ 

J* ‘c ■ 

* • • 

^■■-" -/•, . . 1 * 

K V ^ > -f . * 


■. , .- : .*i ■ ♦. ■ ^ WV' ' 

* !>.:.* ■ * ' 


1 . 

* - » 


•’" («r 


• ; «. _•» >': * , ‘ 1 . - f *1 

^ ' ♦i 

‘ . ic .l/--l*cl‘® 



CORINNE’8 VOW. 


had been taught by his mother and M. le Cure, and had made his 
first Communion before he was stolen away. Every night when 
Hassan could not sleep he would call Vincent to sit beside him 
and fan him, and tell him true stories of his own land and his 
people, and the churches in which they worshiped the true God, 
and about the good Jesus who came down on earth and died on 
the cross. Until one night, when neither the black giant nor 
any one was near, he said low, for he had been growing worse and 
was very weak : ^ Vincent, I, too, would be like you, a Christian, 
that when I die I may go to your good God, and not to Mahomet^s 
paradise.’ And then Vincent remembered what M. le Cure had 
taught him, and, because he knew that no priest could come to 
Hassan, he poured the water on him and baptized him, and that 
night he died.” 

^^And then — then, did Vincent get away?” asked Margie, 
eagerly. 

"No,” replied Hubert. "It was worse than ever; for Omar, 
the black giant, saw him pouring the water, and told Abdul Has- 
san that Vincent had killed his young master by some Christian 
spell. And Omar wanted to tie him up in a bag with a heavy 
stone and throw him into the sea, just like bad boys do kittens, 
but Abdul Hassan looked at him, and, seeing how straight and 
strong he was, said : ^ No. This boy is good to look at, and 
Hassan was but a curse and a shame. This slave’s skin is 
brown, and his eyes are dark, like the sons of the Prophet. God 
hath sent him to me in Hassan’s place, and I will take him as my 
son.’ But Vincent, though he feared the bag and the stone, spoke 
up bravely : ^ My lord, your slave I am, but your son I can never 
be, for I am a Christian, and not a Turk.’ And though Abdul 
Hassan grew furious with rage, and threatened to cut off Vincent’s 
ears and tongue, he would say this and nothing more.” 

" Oh,” cried Margie, in dismay, " I would have made believe 
Turk surely, wouldn’t you ? ” 

" No,” answered Hubert, stoutly. " That would be denying 
the faith, and no Lamar has ever done that. Vincent was right, 
and it is almost a pity, as he often says, that he wasn’t killed 


70 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


right then, for he would have been a blessed martyr, instead of a 
poor old sinner of a fisherman, as he is now. But Abdul Hassan 
only had him beaten hard, and sent him off to the slave market to 
be sold again. And — M. le Cure told him it was to reward his cour- 
age — the very day he got to Tripoli the Redemptioner Fathers 
came with money to buy all the captive Christians, and Vincent 
was saved and brought home. 0 Margie ” — Hubert^s narration 
over, he glanced about him in dismay — look how far we are from 
shore ! 

Pooh ! thaPs nothing ; we can row back. And we are half- 
way to the Pirate Island. Let us go take a look at it, Hubert, 
since we are so near.” 

Hubert hesitated. Hitherto he had been taught the obedience 
that the bravest and manliest yield to due authority, but Margie’s 
rebel scoffs were still echoing in his ears. What boy of twelve 
could bear to be told by a girl that he was afraid to wink an eye 
against his mother’s will ? 

“ I’m just dying to see a Pirate Island,” continued Margie, 
recklessly. I’ve read stories about them, and there is always gold 
buried somewhere on them. Oh, I feel as if I would find some 
gold, and then Corinne and I would not have to be poor any 
more. Good gracious ! if that Pirate Island was near my coun- 
try, every six-year-old boy would be digging there, but you are 
all so poky and goody-goody over here. Pull on, Hubert ! We are 
almost there now.” 

And Hubert pulled on, sorely against his will, as many a 
bigger man does when a mocking little witch is goading him on 
to daring and danger; for the sea was growing rougher each 
moment, and the little hands of the young sailors found the oars 
more unmanageable on the white-capped waves, that caught the 
boat up like a plaything, and tossed it from crest to crest. 

Bold little Margie shouted with glee at this frolic with old 
Neptune, but Hubert was much more sober. Mont Aigle, perched 
on its rocky crag, looked unpleasantly distant. Never had he seen 
it in such picturesque completeness before. Cliff and terrace and 
tower rose against the sky like a beautiful painting. A row of 



“ They would wait at the Porte des Pauvres in vainP 


/ 





\W 


% 


I 




I 





'.I 


v.» • 



i 

•-•i 


ii 





CORINNE'8 VOW, 


73 


dark figures was outlined against the gray stone walls. Hubert 
remembered it was Friday, when a dozen or more poor pensioners 
of his mother came to receive their weekly dole. It was one of his 
gracious duties, as heir of the house, to bestow this bounty, and his 
mother had given the money into his keeping this morning. 
Never had he missed his Friday visitors until to-day. What 
would they think of him — old Gustave and Eaoul — and the poor 
Veuve Artois with her little Angelique? Ah, they would wait at 
the Porte des Pauvres in vain to-day, for the money was locked up 
in a box on his dressing-table and the key was in his pocket. 
And, oh, what would his mother think ? What would she say ? 

Kougher and wilder leaped the waves, and now swift shadows 
came sweeping over the waters; the horizon began to frown 
darkly and ominously. Hubert knew what that meant. Margie, 
the storm is coming. We must get back if we can,^’ he said, in a 
tone of alarm. 

^^Turn, then,” said Margie, who began to realize there was 
something threatening in these white-crested waves. You 
ought to have told me there were breakers around this island, and 
I wouldn’t have come. Turn the boat to the shore ; pull on your 
right oar, you stupid boy — pull, pull ! ” she cried, sharply. 

But Hubert pulled in vain. Even as she shouted her orders 
Margie’s oar was wrenched from her grasp by a great, leaping, 
combing wave, and the boat spun round like a tipsy thing under 
the helpless stroke of the single oar. 

Oh, catch it ! ” cried Margie, nearly springing overboard in 
her excitement. Catch my oar, Hubert ! ” 

^^Sit still,” shouted Hubert, showing himself the little man 
he was in this extremity. Sit still and hold fast, Margie ! Here 
comes the storm.” And with a whistling rush the wind, hot and 
fierce with its wild rush from the great African desert, swept over 
the waters, that darkened into a dreadful twilight as the great 
pall-like clouds blackened the sky. 

Oh, oh, oh ! ” shrieked Margie, all her boasted courage desert- 
ing her, we are going to be drowned, Hubert — we are going to be 
drowned.” 

' (. 


74 


CORINNE’S VOW. 


" Sit still and hold fast ! ” cried the boy desperately. And, 
flinging his useless oar away, he caught the shrieking, terrifled 
M argie around the waist, while with the other hand he clutched the 
side of the boat, as, with a crash like that of a hundred batteries, 
the clouds above them split in jagged lines of fire, and the Mediter- 
ranean storm was upon them in all its death-dealing fury. 

“ Hold on, Margie ; hold tight and pray ! cried Hubert, des- 
perately. 0 God, have mercy on us and forgive us for being so 
bad ! Hold on, Margie ! 0 Mother Mary, pity us, please, and don’t 
let us drown ! ” 

Oh, oh ! ” shrieked Margie, in terror, we are lost — we are 
lost ! ” 

But shriek and prayer were alike swept away by the wild tumult 
of the storm. The lightning rent the black clouds with tongues 
and forks of awful fire ; the thunder crashed ; the wind lashed the 
waves into mad fury. Drenched, blinded by the flying spray, the 
children were flung from crest to trough of the huge billows in 
the frail little boat, whose lightness was its only safety now, for it 
danced like a cork amid the breakers, while the luckless little tru- 
ants shrieked and prayed, feeling that each moment would be their 
last. Surely never had stolen holiday so woful an ending. At 
length a mighty curling wave caught the whirling boat up on 
its white crest and, with an angry leap, flung *it high upon a 
sandy beach, a shattered wreck, while, with a last, wild cry of 
terror, Margie was conscious of an awful thud and shock, and 
then knew nothing more. How long that darkness lasted she 
could never tell, but faintly at last, as if in a dream, voices 
reached her dull, half-comprehending ear, and she was gasping 
and spluttering over some fiery liquid that was gurgling down her 
throat. 

Down with it, you little fool, down with it, if you want to 
live. Give the boy another drop. He looks white about the gills 
yet. This one is fighting for her life like a little wild-cat. Mille 
tonnerres! what sort of people these Americans are, to turn two 
little idiots like these loose on the reefs of San Marco, and in the 
very teeth of a storm ! ” 


CORINNE'8 VOW. 


75 


And into the mouth of the Wolf/’ said another voice, with a 
hoarse laugh. 

‘‘ Bien! It was well for them the Wolf was here, or they 
would have been food for the fishes now. Why I dragged them 
from their broken boat before the waves could sweep them off I 
do not know. I thought they were two bare-legged brats from 
the fishermen’s huts on the point above — luckless little devils 
that might as well drown as starve. But when I saw their dress 
I felt I had hooked a prize from the sea. They are from Mont 
Aigle, you are sure ? ” 

Aye ! Sure as that I am the son of my mother. I have seen 
them often; only two days ago they were both down in Laroche, 
buying apricots, with old Antoine, who guards them like a watch- 
dog. Well he may, for black looks follow them wherever they go. 
Even in the Chapel of Bon Secours men cursed them as they 
passed the door. The American of Mont Aigle, with his great oil 
mill, has robbed all the country around. Stupids that they are, 
they do not know.” 

We will bleed them now,” was the triumphant answer. Ten 
thousand francs it will be, my friend, to divide between us, for 
this day’s catch. Ten thousand francs, and, if I know aught of 
theW Americans, it will be paid before to-morrow night. Children 
are scarcer with -them than with us over here. E'o one can blame 
us, either; it is but a just reward for saving such precious treas- 
ures. And until the money is ours we keep our prizes ; keep them 
safe and fast. Eh ! then, our eyes are opening ! ” And the speaker 
grew suddenly silent as Margie’s dark eyes unclosed and fixed 
themselves in terror on the dark-bearded faces bending above her. 
She was lying in a rough coat that had been flung down upon a 
ledge of rock. The storm was sobbing itself to rest, but from 
below came the roar and surge of the unappeased sea. 

The sound roused stunned memory. Hubert ! ” she said, 
with a shiver. Where is Hubert ? ” 

Your brother ? Here he is, safe enough.” And, moving aside, 
one of the men showed Hubert gasping and choking over a sec- 
ond dose of the brandy that had roused Margie. You are both 


76 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


all right now. Swing them np between you, men, and carry them 
to the camp, where old Babette will look after them.” 

No, no ! ” cried Margie, thoroughly aroused now, and recoil- 
ing in terror from the dark faces and rough voices around her. 
“ Take us home, take us back to Mont Aigle. Madame Lamar 
will pay you anything you ask. Oh, please, please take us home ! ” 
“Not to-night,” was the short answer. “Do you hear those 
breakers? Bien! they wonT be cheated twice in one day, and 
there is not a splinter left of the boat that brought you here. If 
I had not been near you when you were driven ashore — pouf ! — 
you would have been gone like a dash of spray back into the sea. 
No one will eat you, no one will harm you, but you can not go 
home to-night. You must stay with old Babette. Take them to 
the camp.” And as the speaker concluded with a peremptory 
gesture, his companion lifted Margie up as if she were a three- 
year-old child and bore her away over the rocks, while another 
black-bearded ruffian followed with the half-conscious Hubert. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE ZINGARI. 

It was not without reason that old Antoine kept close watch 
over his master’s children. For hundreds of years the Tower of 
the Eagles had looked down upon a region whose fierce, wild in- 
habitants were ever ready to defy and elude the strong hand of 
the law. Smugglers, pirates, banditti, had found these mountain 
gorges sloping to the sea, the outlying islands fringing the coast, 
their favorite byways and resorts, and of late the smoldering 
lawlessness of the locality had been stirred into a spirit of fierce 
hostility against the family at Mont Aigle. Les Americains had 
become objects of hate and suspicion, and for the first time the 
modern clash between Labor and Capital was known on these 
wave-washed heights. 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


77 


Three years ago Monsieur Gustave Lamar, a wealthy New 
Orleans merchant, while traveling for health and recreation in 
this sunny southland, had seen in its wide-spreading olive groves 
an opportunity for American enterprise. Hitherto all had been 
primitive simplicity, uncultivated trees, clumsy oil mills, un- 
skilled labor, medieval methods. But in a little while the peas- 
ants were staring in wide-eyed wonder as the great “ Lamar Oil 
Works rose in the valley below Laroche, and swallowed up all 
the simple industries of the locality. Men and women left their 
fields, their vineyards, their looms, and lace cushions, to join the 
rioii Americanos army of hands,’^ and for a while there was more 
money in the old domain of the Lascaris than those sturdy princes 
had ever handled. 

Then came the American panic,^^ and Monsieur Lamar had 
to shut down and hurry home, to guard the immense interests 
at stake there. But the simple-minded peasants were unused to 
such modern methods, and resented them fiercely. 

They could not understand the sudden stoppage of the Pacto- 
lian stream, whose golden flow had brought them from the shores 
and the mountains. With their olive groves stripped, their own 
old mills abandoned, two hundred workers left with idle hands 
and angered hearts, there was a ferment in the air that boded no 
good to the dwellers at Mont Aigle. 

Unconscious of danger. Monsieur Lamar remained in Ameri- 
ca, leaving his wife and children, as he supposed, in safety on this 
quiet cliff beside the sea, hoping, as he had announced on his de- 
parture, to reopen the works on his return. 

But meanwhile suspicion and bitterness were deepening every 
day around Mont Aigle. In vain Madame Lamar dispensed gen- 
erous charity at the Port des Pauvres. The spirit of lawlessness, 
never extinct, was flaming into sullen fury. 

It was at this inopportune time that Margie and Hubert met 
with their misadventure on San Marco, where, as old Antoine and 
Vincent well knew, though for their lives they dared not betray 
the fact, the notorious bandit, Le Loupgarou, or the Wolf-man, 
made his headquarters. 


78 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


For a dozen years or more Loupgarou had been the terror of 
the mountain passes on the frontiers of France and Italy. His 
name was the bugaboo of southern nurseries, his reckless deeds 
the boast of all kindred characters on the Mediterranean shores. 
Happily Margie knew nothing of all this, or her terrors would 
have been redoubled as her black-bearded captor bore her over the 
rocky ridge that formed the backbone of the island reef and 
swung her to the ground when he reached the glen below. Here 
was the camp of which his leader had spoken — not an inviting 
place surely, after the luxury of Mont Aigle. A couple of ragged 
tents flapped idly in the wind ; two or three half-starved donkeys 
were tethered to the trees, beneath which were gathered a group 
of tattered, dark-faced vagrants, the men eating and smoking, 
the children playing under the eyes of a worn, sad-faced mother, 
while another older woman, who had evidently been preparing the 
evening meal, stood near. 

Babette, Babette ! ” called the man who had brought Margie. 
^^Here is a catch the captain has just made in the sea that he 
sends to you.” 

The older woman turned at the words. She had a face brown 
and wrinkled as a walnut, in which twinkled two little angry 
sparks of eyes. Fish or flesh, Babette will cook no more to- 
night,” she said, flercely. 

These will keep until to-morrow,” answered the man, with 
a grim smile. You are to take care of them for the night.” 

“ More children, more ! ” shrieked the old woman, shrilly. 
^‘Have I not enough idle good-for-nothings on my hands now? 
It is always Babette, old Babette, Babette to cook, to clean, to 
All the pot, to make the Are, to feed the hungry, gaping mouths 
around me — always Babette. And I was three-and-seventy years 
old last Christmas, and Lena, who is not thirty, sits there with 
folded hands and staring eyes.” 

Stop your hoot, you old night-owl,” said the other man, who 
carried Hubert, as he laid his half-conscious burden on the 
ground. ^^Look to this boy, for he wants woman’s care. The 
young folks were out in a boat that went to pieces on the reef in 



Here was the camp of which his leader had spoken. 





. r 1 . 



V.Vvi-,^4 





<j| ^ ' fill’ .. 'V 


li . : 






• . i 

* 1 • 

IP 



<.-.' i.; ’■*■ .•''-7,T*j-V,- 

•S’ •,-,j'3j:ft *rv' '• '- 



I f 


• 

V '■ 

* 


4 


, ,i.f A 



>jU> 






CORINNE^S VOW. 


81 


the storm. Bestir yourself with hot lotions and tisane, or the lad 
will die.^’ 

Oh, no, no ! ” Margie forgot all fear for herself in the grief 
and terror that came over her remorseful little soul at these 
words. She sprang to Hubert’s side, and cried beseechingly to 
the sullen-faced group around her : Oh, don’t let Hubert die I 
For God’s sake do something for him. It was alb my fault — all — 
all. I brought him here; he did not want to come. I am a 
wicked, wild, disobedient girl, but Hubert is good. Oh, help him, 
save him ! His mother will pay you ; she will give you anything 
you ask if you save her boy.” 

Bah, bah ! he will not die,” said old Babette, roughly, as she 
bent over Hubert’s prostrate form, felt his heart, and lifted his 
closed eyelids. I have a tisane that will make the blood flow, the 
heart beat. But he must not lie here. Take him into the house 
above. Stir the Are under the stones, Lena, thou lazy one, and 
set the pot to boil. I must look to this child to-night.” And at 
the old woman’s bidding Hubert was lifted again in the bearer’s 
strong arms and carried some two hundred yards farther, where 
a square stone house rose behind high, frowning walls, that 
seemed to shut out all approach. But Babette led the way up the 
steps and through the heavy door that opened into a broad, stone- 
paved hall, where all was moldy, tattered splendor. Gorgeous 
tapestries, faded and moth-eaten, hung on the walls. There were 
carved chairs and tables, rugs and cushions of curious Eastern 
workmanship. A lamp of wrought silver swung from the vaulted 
ceiling; but everywhere lay the dust of years; huge cobwebs fes- 
tooned the corners, mold had gathered on the carvings, the em- 
broidery was tarnished, the silks and velvets ragged and musty. 

Babette pushed open another door that led into a small but 
lofty room, where the last rays of the sun setting amid banks of 
tattered cloud were trembling through a window of painted 
glass that portrayed a Crusader in full armor. The walls were 
lined with books reaching almost to the ceiling. A broad, low 
couch, covered with leather, stood beneath the window, and here 
Hubert was laid, while Margie, sobbing, stood trembling near. 


82 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


Will he get well ? Oh, will poor Hubert ever get well ? she 
asked, as old Babette began to rub the boy’s limbs with a vigor- 
ous but skilful hand. 

Did I not say so ? Yes, yes, yes. Begone with ye all, while 
I work with the lad. Before the moon rises he will be warm and 
soft and sleeping like a nursing babe. I have said it. Begone, 
all ! ” 

Come on,” said Lena, laying her thin brown hand on Margie’s 
arm. Do not weep. La vieille will be true to her word. But 
we must not watch her. The stars have taught her wisdom that 
it is not for us to know.” 

Oh, if Hubert could have a doctor,” cried Margie, whose 
faith in the powers of La vieille was very faltering. “ Oh, won’t 
you send one of these men to the shore for a doctor ? ” 

Lena shook her head sadly. Poor child, you know not where 
you are. But fear not. La vieille is more than many doctors. 
Often do they send for her to the great houses where Death 
stands with his hand on the open door and the doctors can not 
drive him away. But when La vieille comes he turns and flees 
into the darkness. For her mother, and her mother’s mother, 
and her mother, again, were wise with the wisdom of the stars. 
Trust thy brother to La vieille, and come with me. I will give 
thee food and drink in the tent with my own little ones, and dry 
garments, and thou canst sleep on the soft grass that I gathered 
before the rain fell. Little, homeless child, come.” 

And, soothed by the soft, sad music of the voice, Margie fol- 
lowed the speaker from the grim-walled house to the tents beyond, 
where the gentle Gipsy mother brewed her a tisane that calmed 
the shocked nerves and brain, gave her a clean, dry cotton dress, 
and spread her a couch of long, soft grass, on which Margie was 
soon sleeping dreamlessly after her troubled day. 

When she awoke, rested and refreshed, the sun was shining 
high in the heavens, a soft wind waving the curtains of the tent, 
and good Lena stood beside her, with her clothes all smoothed and 
dried, and even her pretty hat pressed into shape by skilful fingers. 

It is as I told thee. Thy brother is well and calling for 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


83 


thee/^ she said, with a smile that brightened her dark, sad face 
like the moonbeam on a lake. “ Come and see.” 

Hurriedly Margie dressed and followed Lena. The camp was 
deserted now, but in a shallow pool below the little brown-skinned 
children were wading, the donkeys drinking, a couple of with- 
ered old crones washing clothes, while close to them a great iron 
pot swung upon crossed sticks bubbled over a fire made in a heap 
of stones. The terror and nervousness of the previous day had 
passed. Hubert was well. Far over the dimpling waves Margie 
could see the Tower of the Eagles gleaming in the sunshine, and, 
though an awful reckoning with Corinne surely awaited her there, 
the hour had not yet come, and, with her usual recklessness, she 
began quite to enjoy the novelty of the situation. 

To be wrecked in a storm and cast ashore into a Gipsy camp 
to spend the night were adventures that dulled all her past ex- 
periences, even in those brightest days when mamma ” was 
ready to provide any and every amusement. 

Do you live on this island always ? ” she asked her conduct- 
ress as they walked on to the house where Hubert awaited them. 

Lena shook her head. To-morrow we may be gone,” she 
answered. We travel toward the setting sun. We stopped here 
at the master’s bidding.” 

^^Who is your master? Does he live in that great walled 
house?” asked Margie, curiously. 

^^Does the lion live in his den, the eagle in his nest?” an- 
swered Lena, scornfully. Heither does the master shut him- 
self within walls of stone. These lands were his father’s, and his 
father’s father, far back into the time when the soldiers of the 
cross gathered like the locusts in the southland. You know the 
story ? ” 

Of the Crusaders, you mean ? ” asked Margie, with a vague 
remembrance of the last lesson on the French kings.” Saint 
Louis was one, I know.” 

^^The lord of San Marco went with the rest,” continued 
Lena, in her low, musical voice, “ but he did not return.” 

^"Was he killed?” asked Margie, eagerly. 


84 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


Not with the sword or the spear, but with the fire of dark 
eyes,^^ answered Lena. He met a daughter of the sunrise, to 
whom is given the beauty of the night and the day. Her spell 
fell upon him, and he forgot his God, his country, his people, 
that he might make her his wife and live with her in her desert 
tent, and learn the wisdom of her tribe, for she was the daughter 
of its kings.” 

That was very wicked,” said Margie, gravely. Corinne 
says one should rather die than give up the true faith. Some- 
thing awful happened to him, I know.” 

Yes, she died,” answered Lena, softly ; died with a little 
dark-eyed babe lying on her breast. And then, when she was gone, 
the soul of the Christian woke again, and, taking the child with 
him, he turned back to his own land and his own people, and shut 
himself up with the priests and holy men of his race, to do pen- 
ance for his sins.” 

And what became of his poor little black-eyed boy ? Did he 
die, too ? ” asked Margie. 

^^No. He grew up brave and strong and wise, was taught 
all Christian wisdom, and married a maiden of his father’s race, 
who bore him many children. Brave men, wise men, holy men, 
have been the lords of San Marco ; but it is told in the tents of 
our people that in every seventh week of years there is born 
to this old Christian race a child whom their books can not teach 
their laws, can not bind, their faith can not hold, one in whose 
veins boils the wild blood of the desert-born Zingari. 

Twenty-five years ago the master of San Marco was a pale- 
faced man, who sat night and day among books, while his wife 
sighed as women do when their hearth is lonely and childless. 
Then at last came the mother’s joy and hope — a strong-limbed, 
beautiful boy — but his first breath was her last, for the child was 
the Zingari, who always costs the Christian mother’s life, the 
Zingari who is the lord of San Marco now, and who, when he 
wearies of his wild life on the mountain pass and the valley, 
comes here to rest; for, though he can no longer call the house 
or land his own, none dare live here and brave his wrath.” 



“ She took Margie's little hand in hers and studied its lines carefully.’’* 






CORINNE^S VOW. 


87 


They had reached the enclosure of the old chateau while Lena 
spoke. Dark-browed, fierce-eyed men were lounging about the 
walls, were stretched in idle ease upon the road. If they were 
guarding the house none would have guessed it, and yet each of 
these seeming vagrants was armed to the teeth. 

There your brother waits,” said Lena, pausing and nodding 
toward the house. Go to him ; but before we part, little friend, 
let the Gipsy mother read your palm.” And she took Margie’s 
little hand in hers and studied its lines earnestly. 

It’s a sin to tell fortunes,” said Margie, bluntly. And I 
don’t want to hear mine, because it’s all bad, I know.” 

Nay, the clouds will pass,” said Lena. Happy child of the 
sunshine, there is joy and peace and love before you, so do not 
fear; all will be well.” And with a kindly nod and smile, the 
speaker turned away, leaving Margie to hurry up the stone walk 
to the house. 

The great hall door stood open. A merry peal of boyish laugh- 
ter reached Margie’s ears as she crossed the threshold. “ Hubert ! ” 
she called, seeing no one, Hubert ! ” 

“ Ah, here she is at last,” said a deep, cheery voice. Come in. 
Mademoiselle Margie, come in. We are just at breakfast.” And 
Margie pushed open the door to the right, in answer to this greet- 
ing, and there, in the rosy light that streamed in through the Cru- 
sader’s window, sat Hubert, propped up by cushions of faded em- 
broidery in a big, carved chair, at a table set with handsome silver 
and china, while a tall, brown-whiskered young gentleman sat 
opposite him, peeling an orange with dainty care. 

Margie, Margie ! ” cried Hubert, delightedly. Oh, I thought 
you were dead when I awoke this morning and found myself here. 

0 Margie, how good God was to save us from that frightful storm, 
and how good this kind Count Carlo has been to — ” 

To pull you out of the reach of the waves ! ” said Count 
Carlo, as he deposited the orange on Hubert’s plate. Nay, I 
would have done as much for two little white kittens. Never could 

1 bear to see anything drown ; water is so cruel, and so cold, and 
so slow. One has time to think of all one’s sins with the water 


88 


CORINNWS VOW, 


gurgling ^ Die, die, die ! ' in ears and in throat. No, no, my boy; 
pray God ever that, when it comes your turn to go, it may be a 
quick bullet or sword thrust and all over — in the wink of an eye.” 

But all will not be over,” said Hubert, shaking his head 
gravely. There is a judgment, and heaven or hell. And Margie 
and I were very wicked yesterday. We stole away from our his- 
tory lesson and took Vincent’s boat. 0 Margie, if we had died 
in our sins ! ” 

A harsh laugh from their host interrupted the penitent con- 
fession. Poor little sinners, indeed ! Ah, w^ell, let it pass until 
you can fast on bread and water for your wickedness. That must 
not be while you are my guests. Come, Babette, the eggs, the 
coffee, the little brown cakes with honey, which no one but you 
can make — bring them all. Little mademoiselle is hungry, I 
know — and Hubert, too.” And the speaker pulled another big 
chair up to the table for his new guest, pushed a plate of oranges 
toward her, and thus began one of the most delightful breakfasts 
Margie had ever enjoyed. There were plums and grapes as well as 
the oranges ; there was coffee, clear and strong as brandy, and rich, 
thick cream, and fresh-laid eggs, white as pearls. Best of all were 
Babette’s little brown cakes, brought in smoking hot and spread 
with golden honey. 

But it was the host who gave the real life and relish and charm 
to the dainty meal, the gay, handsome host, who, with his brown 
curls tossed back from his merry, laughing face, his dark eyes 
dancing gleefully, seemed as full of fun as a naughty schoolboy off 
on a frolic. 

More cakes, Babette, more ; we are as hungry as little wolves 
this morning, after our ducking yesterday. And so we ran away 
from our English governess. Ah, ma foi, I do not wonder. An 
English governess is the Dragon of St. George. I have seen them 
marching their luckless little ranks in the Riviera, the Rialto — 
tall and bony, sharp-nosed, sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued.” 

No, no, no,” said Hubert. We ran away from no one like 
that. Mademoiselle Corinne is beautiful as an angel. She is 
Margie’s sister.” 


C0RINNW8 VOW, 


89 


Margie’s sister ! ” exclaimed Count Carlo^ staring. Then, 
are you not sister and brother also ? ” 

No,” answered Margie. Corinne is my sister. She is 
teaching at Mont Aigle because we are very poor now. Once we 
were rich, but all our money has gone since papa was drowned in 
UImpemtrice. And my mamma is dead, too. Ah, we have had 
sorrow enough to kill us, Corinne and I. Every one at Saint 
Pierre said so. What we would have done I do not know if 
Hubert’s mother had not sent for us to come to Mont Aigle. And 
then Miss Carson went away, and Corinne took her place, and 
teaches us all every day.” 

I see, I see. And you ran away from her,” said the Count, 
nodding. 

We will never do it again,” said Hubert, gravely. Will we, 
Margie ? ” 

No, never — in a boat,” replied Margie. 

And we will take whatever penance mademoiselle gives us.” 

No, we won’t,” said Margie, hastily, for we have had quite 
penance enough. Is it not so, monsieur ? When you take us back 
and tell Hubert’s mamma and Corinne about the terrible storm 
and the death from which you saved us, they will weep with joy 
and forgive us all.” 

And when they know how good monsieur has been to us,” 
added Hubert. 

^^Ah, yes, yes; if you talk to Madame Lamar and Corinne, 
monsieur, you will make all things right,” continued Margie, 
eagerly. 

Ah, well ! We will see, we will see,” said their host, rising 
from the table. I can not go with you until to-morrow.” 

" Not until to-morrow ! ” echoed the unconscious little captives 
in dismay. Then we must go alone, monsieur, for we can not 
remain another night. Ah, if you could go with us, monsieur, and 
explain all, so that we will not be punished ! ” And each innocent 
little pleader seized one of monsieur’s ” hands imploringly. 

Wait, wait,” he said, with an uneasy laugh, " wait only a 
little while. I will go up the beach and see if there is a boat ready. 


90 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


Look, there are books, pictures here, stranger than you have ever 
seen, and in the cabinet there are many curious things, brought 
hundreds of years ago across the seas. Amuse yourselves till — till 
I come back.’^ And he shook each little hand gaily and turned 
away. Babette ! ” he called, as he reached the outer door. 

The old woman came shuffling along the hall, wiping a silver 
dish on her ragged apron. The gay, boyish look had passed from 
her master’s face. It looked strong and dark and hard — the face 
of a resolute man. 

^^Keep them close and safe until you hear from me again — 
close and safe, and, mind you, no bugaboo tales to them. I am 
the Count of San Marco, and they are my little friends and guests. 
That is all.” 

I hear ye,” said old Babette, nodding, and ITl keep them 
close and safe. Ye needn’t fear.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE STORM BURSTS. 

Meantime there had been dire anxiety and grief at Mont 
Aigle. It had been some time before the two little truants were 
missed, for the French kings ” on that particular day had given 
place to a more interesti]jg history, which Corinne and Madame 
Lamar were discussing in the latter’s especial sanctum. 

A letter of passionate pleading had come from Jack Ruthven, 
in reply to Corinne’s announcement of her future plans : 

My God ! what is it you tell me ? That henceforth you must 
work — work for your own bread and for Margie’s ? .That you will 
let a dying woman’s supreme act of selfishness mar your life — and 
mine? Corinne, this is absolute folly, absolute madness. I have 
written to Madame Lamar, begging her to speak to you with a 
true friend’s interest, with an older woman’s wisdom, with a 
Christian mother’s authority. 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


91 


This cruel, reckless sacrifice must not be. God has given you 
to me in your helplessness, your poverty. I can and will care for 
you. Give me one word of hope, and in two weeks I will be at 
your side, to claim that blessed privilege forever. Many of the 
officers have their wives here in port ; it is likely we will be cruis- 
ing in these waters for the next year. You will find warm, cor- 
dial friends to welcome you even in this strange land, though 
Love knows not strange lands. He bears with him everywhere 
his Paradise. As for Margie, it is right and fitting that she 
should go to her relatives in America, until the happy day when 
we can all go back — home. 

“Write to me — nay, cable to me — one word only — Come.’’ 

“My dear, my dear,” said Madame Lamar, taking Corinne 
in her motherly arms, “no girl in her senses would be deaf to 
such a heart cry. And from such a man — six feet four if he is an 
inch — and such shoulders, such eyes ! If you could have heard the 
French women raving over him at La Fete des Fleurs last spring ! 
Heaven itself points him out as your husband. There, don’t cry, 
don’t cry. Of course, it can’t be settled as it might have been a 
year ago, but I will manage everything for you, my dear — every- 
thing. I will make your trousseau my own affair; it need not be 
at all a serious matter. A dozen or so of pretty muslin gowns, 
since, of course, you must still wear mourning, and you will be 
in that terrible hot East. I will send the cable despatch to Mar- 
seilles at once.” 

“ Yo, no, 0 dear friend, no,” sobbed Corinne. “ It can 
not be. You forget, dear friend, I am not free. I am bound by a 
solemn promise to the dead. I can not desert Margie.” 

“ Margie ! ” echoed Madame Lamar. “ Corinne, Corinne, I 
have no patience with such folly. Margie, who is not even your 
own sister, who neither respects nor obeys you ! For this reckless 
little madcap you fling away your own happiness, your own 
future. Listen to reason, my dear, dear child. Let Margie go 
to her uncle.” 

“ Who is a hard, worldly minded man, without faith, without 
morals. 0 dear madame, I have heard mamma speak of her 
brother. She would never have trusted her child to him, I know.” 


92 


C0RINNW8 VOW. 


My dear, poor Edith gave very little thought for any one but 
Margie and herself, so we can not take her opinions. I suppose 
her brother was as good as the most of men, and, besides, his wife 
would have care of Margie.’^ 

She was a divorcee when he married her,’^ answered Corinne. 

Papa would not allow mamma to visit her. 0 dear madame, 
is it into such hands I can trust the little sister whom I vowed to 
protect? No, no; I can not leave her; neither can I stay here, 
where she is a trouble and a care.'’^ 

Mamma, mademoiselle ” — Estelle burst into the room regard- 
less of ceremony — Hubert and Margie have gone. They are not 
in the house or in the garden or the grounds. 0 mamma, 
perhaps they have run oft* again, as they did last week, to buy 
bonbons at Laroche, and Vincent and Antoine have come back 
white with anger. They were stoned and pelted with mud in 
the road.’’ 

What ! ” exclaimed Madame Lamar, her eyes flashing. My 
servants stoned and pelted ! ” 

0 mamma, yes, yes,” said Estelle, sobbing in her excite- 
ment. Antoine says it is because they hate us, and do not want 
him to serve us. Ah ! you should see the poor old man, all mud 
and dirt, and a great cut over his left eye.” 

Breathless with indignation, Madame Lamar hurried down 
into the lower hall. There, indeed, stood the old gardener, muddy 
and blood-stained from a stone-cut on his forehead, while a chorus 
of hoarse shouts and cries without announced that his assailants 
had followed him even here. 

Traitor, traitor, liar, dog that licks the strangers’ feet ! ” 
rose the voices, mingled with ruder epithets. Pay us our 
money, pay us our money ! ” 

‘^Madame, it is this, it is this,” said old Antoine, who was 
trembling in every aged limb. When I went to pay madarne’s 
bills for the wine, the grain, the flour, they were three, five 
times greater than they should have been ; three, five times higher 
was the charge than ever before. I tell them they are rogues, 
they are thieves, they are robbers, and I will not pay — I will not 


COBINNE^S YOW. 


93 


pay madame^s money to them. And they cry, " It is the Americans 
who have cheated, who have robbed us,’ and they stone me and pelt 
at me, and follow me, hooting, even here.” 

Robber, traitor ! ” came the hoarse shouts from the rear of 
the house. 

Madame Lamar’s spirit rose. Max, Max ! ” she cried, ex- 
citedly. Huldah, Huldah, turn the dog loose on those scoun- 
drels ! ” And snatching a gun from the rack in the hall, the mis- 
tress of Mont Aigle sprang to the door, just as two great swarthy 
■ruffians advanced, blandishing huge clubs at Max, who had 
bounded out, barking furiously. The lady of Mont Aigle had 
hot fighting blood in her veins, and in an instant she raised her 
gun and fired. As the bullet whizzed through the trees one of 
the ruffians stumbled down with a fierce oath. “ Help, help, 
Filippo ! That she devil has lamed me forever ! ” 

“ Madame, dear madame, what have you done ? ” cried 
Antoine in terror, as, hurling his club with a furious curse at the 
dog, the unharmed man hastened to his comrade’s aid. Mon 
Dieu! those accursed Lavasseurs will rouse the whole mountain- 
side now. Lock the doors, bar the windows. Ah, misericorde, 
they will be down upon us now, I fear, like hungry wolves who 
have smelt blood.” 

‘^^And Hubert, Margie, are out, God knows where,” cried 
Corinne, paling even to her lips. ^^Max, Max, come with me. 
Dear madame, I must go look for those reckless children.” 

Mademoiselle, no, no, you must not,” said old Antoine, his 
voice trembling with excitement. It is for me, for Vincent, to 
protect you, whom God, whom our good Monsieur Lamar, left in 
our care. Ah, madame, mademoiselle, you do not know the dan- 
ger. Le Loupgarou is watching the shores. His men are in the 
valley, in the mountain, laughing at the men of Laroche, who 
let the rich Americans fool and rob them. ^ Bah ! ’ they say, ‘ you 
are children, you are cowards ! The eagle of the Lascari is but 
a carrion crow now. Say the word, and our master will rob the 
nest for you.’ ” 

^^And who, in heaven’s name, is this Loupgarou?** asked 


94 


C0RINNE^8 VOW. 


Madame Lamar, sharply. I thought the name was but a bogy 
to frighten children.” 

" Madame does not know ? ” said old Antoine, in amazement. 

Madame has not heard of the Zingari of San Marco, the curse 
that is sent to the race every seven times seven years, the wild 
count who fears neither God nor man? Ah, madame, though I 
have not dared betray, for my father and my father’s father have 
served his father and his father’s father for more years than I 
can count, I must speak now. The Zingari chief is there, 
madame, there in the house of his fathers,” and old Antoine 
pointed a shaking hand across the sea, and every devil on these 
coasts will follow at his call.” 

And Hubert, my boy ! ” cried Madame Lamar, all her spirit 
lost in a mother’s terror. Merciful heavens, where is he in the 
midst of all these dangers? That madcap girl has led him off 
again, God knows where. Oh, find him, good Antoine, search for 
my boy, bring him hack to me, and you shall claim your own 
reward.” 

I go, madame, I go,” said the old man, earnestly. Keep 
within the house, I beg of you, until I return. Bar the doors, the 
windows, and let no one in, for there are devils on all sides 
of us.” 

Max — here is Max,” said Corinne, laying her hand upon the 
dog, who was still growling angrily, with his eyes fixed on the 
door. Max, Max — find Margie, find Margie ! ” 

Instantly the growl was hushed. Max lifted his great intelli- 
gent eyes to the speaker’s face. “ Good boy, good Max,” repeated 
Corinne, encouragingly, ^^find Margie.” And Max wagged his 
tail, bounded out of the door, and went leaping down the cliff 
road to the sea. Old Antoine nodded and followed his four- 
footed guide. It was a favorite walk with the children, and gen- 
erally a safe one, for the cliffs and beach directly below the Tower 
of the Eagles were usually free from all intruders. 

As old Antoine shambled on, glad that his search was not 
likely to lead him back in the dangerous neighborhood of La- 
roche, he became conscious of a sudden darkening of the sky, a 



She raised her gun and fired. 







!■ 


A* ^'m > ■ ■• J ^ 


v.^ < *• v^, 


V. r- 


$3 


• :c 


% vi 



' • ♦ 


4 ^ 


* » 

f;' 

4 » 

. ■ •:^ ^ 

!V*> 


> nt 


T' U 


• I 


' \ 







I ^ 
k • 


■ ' ' 


' K * 


. T» 


? //^ 

I 


' t 


fti. 



V 

*: ; 




1 

‘ 4 


t 


• j 


' ‘/.. - V-^ 





dv- 

* . * 1 . .' 




r*Sf ’.'♦risiVL V.4UI<(»C » ^ ■*' 


3t. 


f ‘ ♦ • - ^ 


" ‘ # 


» y 




j 


I'' »’ 


jTr 


rV 



& **-^,^ l^jf^ 

• /' i "'^li ‘. 

*-H- 

: ^ *'i.i • » •. • 

« * Li . . ^ r * . » 

) 


^ <«■ e‘* 

• '«(, 

4 








»‘ 


f< 


a* i. 




■ i!L<t .■‘‘ 


'■ . - ■*%•■■,; -i^ ':■ '■ 


. I’o ; 

* • » 

^ ^ i 


». 

V 


0» 


, ;V •• . 


y npiW H -T . f '• ' Jf * > 4 : A 

:• 'Sri -.-‘It-h-.,, 



■ < 






it'"' i. '— ‘ 



•'%- f - 


A 


• « 


» • 


.. 4 » 


1 : . . 1 ,: 

ajPtti'*;,- . , J ‘'■^, .\, 

' ^ • V ’.♦?* . '■» . 1 ' — w 




i / ..- 


. A, 


.. ,M=* 


.> . - Tf 



.. , (>' ■ 
'KL • » -i t ill 


U.-4L* H »fcl 


ik I 


a 


.Jt 

111 


CORINNE'8 VOW, 


97 


chill in the air, omens that all old coast men recognized at once. 

Ah, the little rogues, the little runaways,’’ he said to himself, 
with a grim smile, there is that coming which will drive them 
home quicker than a stick in old Antoine’s hand. The old Father 
Wind is coming from the south like a roaring lion. Fool of a 
dog, go on, go on,” for Max had stopped, and, planting his front 
legs upon a half-sunken spar on the beach, was giving voice to a 
low, piteous whine, as he surveyed the darkening sea. “ Go on, 
thou stupid — art afraid of the storm?” said old Antoine, impa- 
tiently. Go and find thy little Mademoiselle Margie, who, I 
wager, is at the bottom of this trouble, before the rain bursts 
upon her.” 

At Margie’s name Max only pricked up his ears and howled 
more dismally. Mille tonnerres/' muttered the old man, as his 
eye fell upon a bit of ragged rope hanging to the spar, can the 
little fools have taken Vincent’s boat ? Vincent ! Vincent ! ” 
But Antoine’s cracked voice was lost in the burst of the storm. 
In a moment it was upon him in all its fury — that wild desert 
wind, whipping the white-capped waves into sheets of foam and 
spray, rending the blackened sky with gashes of fire, rousing the 
mighty cliffs into dull, thunderous wrath, as it beat upon their 
strength in fierce, impotent tumult. Often had Antoine faced the 
southern storm before, but never had it shaken him, body and 
soul, as it shook him to-day. He dared not stand against it. He 
could only crouch in a friendly cleft of the rocks and let its 
wrath sweep over his trembling form. Perhaps the fear and 
excitement through which he had just passed, the blow on his 
temple, had weakened and dazed him, for the white blur of the 
spray seemed to shape itself into phantom forms, the roar and 
shriek of the storm to upbear other sounds — the yodel of the 
herdsmen on the mountains, the far-off chime of cathedral bells, 
the minute guns from sinking ships — while through all came 
the piteous howl of the dog, who crouched, shivering, at his 
side. 

It was over at last, though sullen echoes were still muttering 
in the distance. The clouds had broken; the waves were sobbing 


98 


C0RINNW8 VOW. 


penitently as they fell back farther and farther from the beach; 
the snn was setting in a royal splendor of crimson and gold. 

Drenched, chilled, hopeless, old Antoine stood peering up 
and down the shore for some trace of the lost boat, some vestige of 
the lost children, when a light skiff skimmed around the point of 
rock to his right, under the stroke of two stalwart rowers. One of 
them sprang to the shore. In an instant Max had bounded to him, 
barking in furious excitement. 

Down, you rascal, down, down ! said the newcomer, good- 
humoredly, as Max fawned and leaped upon him again. A fine 
dog, my friend ; what will you take to part with him ? 

He is not mine to sell, monsieur ; he belongs to one of the 
little ladies at Mont Aigle, for whom we are both searching. 
God grant no harm may have come to her in this terrible storm ! 

^^No; be reassured she is quite safe.’^ 

^^And the boy, too, monsieur?’^ 

Both,” was the cheering answer. It was my good fortune 
to rescue them when their boat went to pieces on the reef.” 

^^Both safe, both safe,” fairly sobbed old Antoine in his joyful 
relief. May the good God bless and reward you, monsieur ! Ah, 
the little rogues, the little runaways; they should be locked up 
three days on bread and water for giving us this fright. Monsieur 
will accompany me to the house, that madame may thank him for 
his kindness.” 

I regret, my friend, that it is impossible just now.” A curi- 
ous, mocking smile flitted over the stranger^s handsome young face. 
“ I must commission you to bear my compliments to the lady of 
Mont Aigle. Say to her that her treasures are quite safe in the 
keeping of Count Carlo of San Marco.” 

Le Loupgarou ! gasped old Antoine. 

^^As you please, my friend,” answered the stranger, with a 
laugh that showed the long, white-pointed teeth which had given 
him his name. Bear the madame this message from — since you 
will have it so — Le Loupgarou. Say to her the little ones will be 
my honored guests for two days. That at any hour during that 
time they will be returned in safety at her command. But, since 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


house and lands have been taken from me, and even an outlawed 
noble must live as beseems his birth, she must, to insure that safe 
return, send to the rock of San Marco a single messenger, bearing 
ten thousand francs ransom/^ 

Ten thousand francs ! echoed old Antoine, desperately. 

Ten thousand ! 

" Yes — a mere trifle to the rich Americans, who give ten times 
that for a jewel, a picture, a robe, that suits their fancy. Ten 
thousand, and by a messenger who must come alone, for the shore 
is watched night and day. Ten thousand francs, my friend, within 
forty-eight hours. For that time the children are safe. I pledge 
my word as — as a San Marco. Afterward I can not be responsi- 
ble.’’ He shrugged his shoulders carelessly. We have to travel 
fast, and if it should be more convenient for them to be dropped 
back into the sea, hien, there would be two more angels in heaven, 
that is all — as the good monks taught me in my youth. It is a 
happy thing to die young, and have it well over. Ten thousand 
francs ! I came to give this message to old Vincent, but you will 
do as well, perhaps better, for the poor old man is both dull and 
deaf. You understand, my friend, ten thousand francs in forty- 
eight hours.” 

Monsieur, monsieur, I do not believe the madame has it in the 
house, and her husband is far away. Have pity, have pity on the 
little ones ! ” 

Hay, it is for madame to have pity. I — I must have the ten 
thousand francs ! ” And the speaker’s young face grew suddenly 
hard and dark. It is not for the strangers who have looted these 
shores in their greed of gain to ask for pity or mercy from Le 
Loupgarou. Go, my friend, take your mistress my message, and 
let her thank God she escapes so well from one who fears neither 
heaven nor earth.” He leaped back into his boat as he spoke, 
waved his hand lightly to the trembling old man, and pushed from 
the shore. 

For full ten minutes old Antoine stood staring after him like 
one dazed. Then he roused himself with an effort and began to 
mutter : Ten thousand francs, ten thousand francs ! Let me re- 

L.ofC. 


loo 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


member all that he said, for my brain is well-nigh turned. Ah, 
he is a devil, as I have always heard — a devil, indeed, with his 
handsome face and soft tongue. Ten thousand francs within two 
days. Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, but it was the black day that 
brought madame to Mont Aigle to meet this woe ! ’’ 

Slowly and painfully the old man made his way up the road. 
Weary of his delay Max had bounded away down the beach for an 
evening swim in the waves that, though still combing high on the 
shore, had lost their fury. Old Antoine crept up the cliff road and 
climbed the terrace with a heavy heart. Ten thousand francs,” 
he muttered to himself, as he passed without a glance the great 
flowering oleanders, over which he had toiled for weeks. Ten 
thousand francs; ah, it is too much. But let me remember well, 
madame must know. To the rock of San Marco in forty-eight 
hours. Ten thousand francs.” 

Traitor, robber, devil ! ” And out from the oleanders sprang a 
furious figure in the old man’s path. Take that for thy morn- 
ing’s work ! ” And the club of the older Lavasseur crashed piti- 
lessly down upon poor Antoine’s head, and, with a moan, the old 
man fell to the earth, his message untold. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A NIGHT OF TERROR. 

Poor old Antoine was lifted into the house and laid upon a 
couch, while kind hands rendered him every assistance possible. 
But the night had fallen, and to send a messenger for doctor or 
priest, with murderous assailants watching the house, seemed mad- 
ness; indeed, no servant within Mont Aigle would have dared to 
go. Happily, old Vincent had hurried to the house, even before 
the burst of the storm, to announce the dire tidings that the chil- 
dren had taken his boat. He was still in the kitchen, and. with his 
rude medical skill and Huldah’s experience as nurse, Antoine’s 
cruel bruises were salved and bathed, and his trembling spark of 
life fanned into feeble flame. 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


101 


But it was on Corinne that the burden of this night of terror 
fell most cruelly, for, with her own tender heart racked with fear 
and anguish, she had to sustain the unhappy mother, whose feebler 
nature was sinking under its strain of agonizing suspense; to guide 
and direct the distracted household ; to think, pray for, uphold all ; 
for the fierce attack of the morning, the disappearance of the chil- 
dren, the storm, the attempted murder of old Antoine, had left the 
servants — a wild, excitable set at best — nearly frenzied with terror. 

Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! We will all be killed, we will be mur- 
dered to-night ! ” cried the kitchen-maid, Annette, in voluble ex- 
citement. It was my brother who warned me to leave last Sun- 
day, who would have dragged me away after Mass, but I would 
not go.” 

“ It is the Loupgarou, who kills men like sheep, who is near,” 
said another, sobbing. The Zingari were in the hills two weeks 
ago. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what is that ? ” as a wild shriek re- 
sounded from the closet below the stair. 

Corinne, who was passing up with a soothing draught she had 
just brewed for Madame Lamar, paused in the midst of the trem- 
bling group. 

It was Marie here, mademoiselle, who has seen little Monsieur 
Hubert’s ghost.” 

Yes, mademoiselle, yes,” said Marie, her black eyes dilated 
with terror. I saw the little monsieur ; he came sliding down the 
stair railing as he does every day, and bump, bump, into the closet, 
where I was filling my lamp. I grew cold as death, mademoiselle.” 

For shame, for shame ! ” said Corinne, sternly. Think of 
poor dying Antoine, think of your mistress crushed with grief, and 
stop this silly disturbance. The house is strong, the doors and 
windows are barred; the cowards who attacked poor Antoine will 
not dare to return, now that they have done their worst.” 

Ah, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, Le Loupgarou dares all 
things ; he fears neither God nor man. It is the Loupgarou whose 
wild men laugh and mock at our country people, because they only 
shake their fists and curse.” 

Ah, mademoiselle, yes, you do not know,” said another. Did 


102 


CORINNrS VOW. 


he not stop the English lady in her carriage at Pont de Puits, last 
summer, and take her jewels in the full light of day? 

And the milord, whom they caught hunting in the moun- 
tains,” said Annette, breathlessly. Le Loupgarou shut him in a 
cave until his mother sent his weight in gold. And he is on the 
rock of San Marco now with his Zingari about him, as all on the 
mountain know.” 

Go to bed, go to sleep,” said Corinne, weary of all this wild 
chatter, or at least go to your rooms and pray — pray that God 
may bring us out of this darkness, this danger ; pray for your mis- 
tress, for poor Antoine, for ” — her voice faltered — for the little 
ones we have lost. 0 my friends,” she cried, brokenly, pray, 
pray ! ” And, leaving the babbling group silenced and softened by 
this appeal, Corinne passed on up the broad stone stairs, lit now 
by quaint hanging cressets, into the wide, dim room, where, with 
the frightened Estelle sobbing by her side, Madame Lamar lay, 
crushed and despairing, in her mother’s grief. 

No news, no news ! 0 my God, let me die, let me die ! I 

can not live under this blow. My boy, my Hubert, my only son ! 
Oh, how can I face his father ! How can I tell him that wo have 
lost him, our pride, our treasure, the last of the Lamars ! Never 
had he disobeyed me in his life until she came — that little madcap 
Margie. 0 my God, why did I ever see her face? It was she 
who led him to his death, I know. 0 the storm, the awful storm ; 
the roar of the wind and the waves, and he, my treasure, was out 
in it all, out in it, facing death — facing death ! ” 

^^Dear madame, wait, hope, trust that God may have spared 
him, may have spared them to us, for poor Margie has shared his 
fate,” murmured Corinne, in a tone that she vainly tried to steady. 

Do not mock me with hope, with hope ! ” almost shrieked 
the frantic mother. There is none, Corinne. They took Vin- 
cent’s boat — little Fanfare saw them — took Vincent’s boat, that 
no full-grown man could guide in such a storm. There is no 
hope. My boy is lost, my boy is lost ! ” 

0 my brother, my brother ! ” sobbed Estelle. Never will I 
see him again, never again.” 



The birds were twittering their matin songs around her. 











C0RINNW8 VOW. 


105 


And all in vain poor Corinne, crushing down her own aching 
heart, strove to speak of hope, of comfort, of resignation. Her 
own death-pale face, her quivering lips, her faltering voice, told 
that she, too, felt earthly hope was gone. It was long after mid- 
night before the soothing draught took effect, and, clasped in each 
other’s arms, Madame Lamar and Estelle sank at last into an 
exhausted sleep. Then Corinne, whose nerves, strung to their 
utmost tension, precluded all rest, glided noiselessly from the room, 
down the dim shadowy stairs again, to the lower chamber, where 
Vincent and Huldah still kept faithful watch over old Antoine. 

^^Has there been any change?” she asked. Even as she 
spoke the dull, bleared eyes of the old gardener opened. 

^^Ten thousand francs,” he muttered, feebly, ^^ten thousand 
francs ; it is too much, too much.” 

His speech has come back,” said Corinne, eagerly. 

Aye, but not his wit, mademoiselle ; he knows naught of what 
he says,” said old Vincent. He has been jabbering thus for more 
than two hours.” 

^^Ten thousand francs,” continued Antoine, while Huldah 
wiped his clammy lips. ^^It was to be brought to the Pirate’s 
Eock in forty-eight hours — ten thousand francs. I — I must npt 
forget.” 

Poor old man ! ” Corinne knelt down beside the couch and 
laid her soft hand tenderly on the bandaged brow. He is wan- 
dering, indeed. Do you know me, Antoine? It is Mademoiselle 
Corinne beside you.” But no gleam of intelligence came into the 
dim, uplifted eyes. 

He will never know any one again,” muttered Vincent be- 
tween his clenched teeth. That cursed Lavasseur took good care 
of that. x4h, but I will remember it, old and weak as I am, I will 
remember, and — revenge — revenge, for Antoine has been my good 
comrade for fifty years.” 

^^Ten thousand francs,” continued the poor old gardener. 

Madame must send it while the children are safe.” 

My God ! what is it he says ? ” cried Corinne, her chilled heart 
suddenly leaping as if with an electric shock. 


106 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


Dreams, mademoiselle, only dreams,^’ said old Vincent, shak- 
ing his head drearily. 

No, no,^’ cried Corinne, her heart beating high with rekin- 
dled hopes. I believe he knew, he heard, something before he 
was struck. Antoine, Antoine, for God’s sake look at me, speak 
to me again; what is it you want to tell me of the children, the 
children, Antoine ? ” 

But no sound of her voice seemed to reach the closed ears. The 
uplifted eyes were as dull, as lifeless as stones. The wonderful life 
chords, thrilling to sight, to sound, to all outer sense, were hushed 
forever, but in its dark, mysterious solitude the brain was working 
still. ^^Ten thousand francs,” repeated the dying man, slowly. 

Le Loupgarou must have it — on the Pirate’s Eock — ten thou- 
sand francs.” 

^^But the children, the children! 0 Antoine, tell me of the 
children ! ” pleaded Corinne, passionately Alas 1 in vain. Alone, 
apart, beyond all human reach, the poor brain could only struggle 
feebly with the gathering darkness, on which that last conscious 
scene stood forth clear, as if photographed by a lightning flash. 

Ten thousand francs,” murmured the old man, gasping for 
breath, ten thousand francs ransom ; ah, Le Loupgarou is a devil, 
a devil without pity. Ten thousand francs — at Pirate’s Eock, ma- 
dame — ten thousand — There was a hoarse sob, a rattle, and, 
with a convulsive shudder, old Antoine’s form suddenly stiffened 
into rigid stillness. 

Gone,” muttered Vincent, bitterly. 

Bless de Lord. He took the poor critter easy,” said old 
Huldah, softly. 

Poor, faithful old Antoine I God give him rest and peace,” 
whispered Corinne. And, burying her head on old Huldah’s 
breast, she burst into the first tears she had shed this dreadful 
night, tears that seemed to unburden her heart and clear her brain. 

Come, Miss Corinne — come, honey — you dun stood up 
long ’nuff ’gin’ trouble ; come upstairs and go to bed,” soothed old 
Huldah, as she led her young lady out of the death chamber and 
up into her own pretty little tower room. 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


107 


The children ! cried Corinne, nervously. 0 Huldah, did 
you hear old Antoine speak of the children ? 0 Huldah, I believe 

they are saved ! I believe some of these dreadful men are holding 
them for a ransom. I must go find them — I must go find them ! ” 
Shoo, honey chile, shoo, shoo,” said old Huldah, soothingly. 
^^Lord knows we’se dun got Itrouble ’miff, wifout you gwine 
^stracted like dis. Dem poor chillun, dey’s wif de good Mas’r, safe 
in de Good Shepherd’s arms, poor little lambs, and nowhar else. 
Lay down on your bed, now, honey chile, and try to go to 
sleep.” 

But, though Corinne, flung herself down wearily upon her 
couch, sleep only came fitfully, restlessly; there was no peaceful 
oblivion to calm heart and brain. A feverish fancy was busy weav- 
ing into new shapes the thoughts and fears and anguish of the 
day. Now the drowning children were stretching their arms to 
her for aid; now Margie, another little Red Riding Hood, was 
being eaten by a huge wolf in the wood ; now old Antoine’s dying 
voice sounded in dull monotone, Ten thousand francs, ten thou- 
sand francs, at the Pirate’s Rock.” 

She awoke with a start, as if the words were again spoken in 
her ear. The sun was shining brightly in her window. The day 
had come again, the blessed day that scatters the fears and fancies 
of the night. Corinne flung open the casement of her little tower 
room and stepped upon its air-hung balcony. The birds were 
twittering their matin songs around her, the sky was without a 
cloud, the sea stretched glad and sparkling in the sunlit distance, 
and, though tears welled into her eyes as she looked at those shin- 
ing waves and thought of all the tragedy they had brought into her 
life, there was a morning thrill of hope in her heart. The island 
of San Marco ! the Pirate’s Rock ! — there it lay, gleaming like a 
jewel in the sunlit distance. Ah, it might be madness, but with 
those dying words echoing in her ear she must go there to seek 
the children. She would kindle no cruel hopes in Madame Lamar’s 
breast. She would risk no life, no safety but her own. Locked up 
in the strong-box in her room were her only treasures — the pearls 
she had last worn at the Columbia ball, pearls rare and exquisite 


108 


CORINNE’S TOW, 


enough for the jewel casket of a queen. She would take her 
pearls for ransom, and go alone to the Pirate’s Eock. 

^ ^ He ^ ^ 

Meantime the day had been by no means an unpleasant one for 
Count Carlos’ little captives. There were books and pictures with- 
out end in that great old library, books such as neither Hubert nor 
Margie had ever seen before — quaint black-letter missals, illumi- 
nated by pious monks hundreds of years before, with startling 
effects of crimson and gold. Then the carved cabinet at the end 
of the room, veiled by musty, moth-eaten curtains, was full of 
even greater wonders, miracles of handiwork in the shape of ivory 
chessmen, dainty reels and shuttles for lace-making and embroid- 
ery, boxes of lacquer and mosaic and inlaid wood. 

When at last, weary of handling these dusty treasures, the chil- 
dren strayed out into the stone-paved kitchen, they found Babette 
drying pears and plums and apricots on long strings, in a way 
that was vastly novel and interesting; while without the arched 
door stretched a still more alluring vista of walled garden, whose 
espaliers were weighted with rich, ripe fruit. 

Go out and eat your fill, for it’s all the dinner you will get,” 
said old Babette, as the children paused at the open doorway. 

And a right royal dinner they had, seated in the shadow of the 
old sun-dial, with plums, apricots, and pears fairly falling into 
their laps. The Count is staying very long,” said Hubert, in a 
troubled voice. Can he have forgotten us, Margie ? ” 

What if he has,” said Margie, fixing her pretty white teeth in 
a purple plum. It is very nice here, a great deal nicer than we 
will find it when we get home. Ah, there will be scolding enough 
when it comes. I would like to run away to the moon, if I could.” 
We will be put on bread and water for a week,” said Hubert. 

Still, I shall be glad to get home. I am not sure of this place, 
Margie. I heard strange things in my sleep last night — things I 
can not remember now, but I felt as if bad men were talking 
around me.” 

'"Pouf!"" said Margie, ^^you had fever dreams. I had them, 
too, when I was first dragged from the water ! del ! I heard voices 


CORINNE'S VOW. 


109 


that made my blood run cold. It was because we were half 
drowned, Hubert. Ah, what a funny little tower at the end of the 
house ! And there are steps leading to it. Let us go up and see 
what it is. Ah, how much we will have to tell when we get back 
to Mont Aigle ! Estelle will grind her teeth to think that she was 
not naughty, too.'’’ And, springing to her feet again, reckless little 
M argie proceeded to clamber up a crooked flight of steps half hid- 
den in the ivy that draped the house wall. 0 Hubert, come, 
come up ! ” she cried, as she reached the stone ledge that made a 
balcony around a small square tower at the south end of the house. 

This is the finest place of all.” 

Hubert followed rather doubtfully, but the temptation was 
too great to be resisted, even by one who had just paid dearly for a 
lesson in caution. Passing from the stone ledge into an open case- 
ment, the children found themselves in what older eyes would have 
recognized as an artist’s studio. The light, streaming in from 
windows opening on every side, showed the usual picturesque con- 
fusion of such a place — busts, casts, effigies, draperies, rough-fin- 
ished charcoal sketches tacked to the walls, portfolios full of out- 
lines and photographs. 

But the central object in the room riveted at once the attention 
of the young intruders. There, upon an easel, was a large picture, 
evidently painted from a smaller sketch just above it. It was a 
scene well known both to Hubert and Margie — the little Chapel of 
Hotre Dame de Bon Secours, the goal of many a pious pilgrimage. 
A strong but somewhat careless touch had limned every detail — 
the picture of the tender Mother of Good Help, surrounded by 
tapers and ex- votes, the dark-robed monks who guarded the shrine, 
the peasants crowding the confessional aisle, the pious strangers 
kneeling before the altar. But it was the figure in the foreground 
that made the two children stare in open-eyed wonder — the fair 
girl who knelt there with bowed head, the light from the shrine 
showing her pale, sweet face, her soft, waving hair, was surely 
familiar to them both. 

It is Corinne ! ” cried Margie. Hubert, do you not see ? It 
is Corinne, and no one else. She made the pilgrimage while 


110 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


mamma and I stayed at Cannes last May. And she spent three 
whole days with the nuns in the convent beside the chapel, praying 
all the time. Poor mamma used to say Corinne was too good ; good 
people are never lucky, they have trouble all the time. It is not 
well to pray too much.” 

A thousand thunders ! ” called a deep voice behind the little 
truants, and Count Carlo, with a black frown on his brow but a 
smile upon his lips, appeared in the doorway. So it is here you 
are, you little rogues. I was just about to skin old Babette for 
letting you run away from her.” 

0 monsieur, no, no ; I hope we have done nothing wrong. 
We saw the funny little stairs and climbed up and found this 
beautiful little room full of pictures.” Margie spoke with her 
prettiest little air and smile, for the black frown still lingered in a 
way that frightened her. But it cleared away at her words, for 
this rough art of his was this wild, lawless man^s one innocent 
delight. The blood of one of the great old masters flowed in his 
veins. He might, perhaps, have been a master, too, but for the 
mad drop that kept all the gentler currents of life awhirl in heart 
and brain. Sometimes, shut up in this little studio, he would 
paint feverishly for days ; then, flinging aside brush and palette, 
he would bang the door of the tower room, and the cobwebs would 
gather untouched for months, nay, years. 

The old spell had been on him of late, and Margie’s innocent 
words were music to his ears. So you like my pictures ? ” he said. 

Oh, yes, monsieur, yes,” answered Margie, who was little 
woman enough to take her cue from look and tone. This big 
one especially; it is very beautiful. It is so like my sister Corinne.” 

Your sister ! ” echoed Count Carlo. " Was your sister at 
Notre Dame de Bon Secours five months ago? ” 

Yes, monsieur.” 

And — does she pray like that ? ” 

Yes, monsieur, always just like that, never turning her head 
or lifting an eye. Ah, she is a saint, Corinne, is she not, Hubert ? ” 

Yes, a beautiful saint, as monsieur doubtless saw,” answered 
Hubert. 



“ The little Chapel of Notre Dame de Bon Becoursr 



Is 





.1 V‘-'-><s^ 


* 1 fc-'i r# 


.S'. 


’’ - " /‘V« 

--v' :, '’- ^ • 


« « 


,*^ -if*- 




■> I 


* V 

j 



V • 

♦ • ■ * •* . 

■ . ■•' •'•., ■’v 


> i. ! ^ 




•y 2 ^^ ; * * . Yj 

'ii4#i''^SW 


• < 

» ’ ♦ * 


V '• 


¥>■ '■^f'-if-' 

* t‘ * * - 

■' ‘*t’' * 



U. 


y- 


r s * -k 


•> « 


'•» j* -, 


♦ \ 

f 


^ “>l^- i 


y' ) - \ 

* 


> 


.1 







N* * ^ 

'^'^Hwr-.; 7 f::.'»v ^ 

iv,- 


' > 


^ ■ Vi ill ■ 


- T 

■Vrf. 


; -A- -X^ ^ 

. "t,- 


• 4 


^ifeiS ^::'..^ T . '?%?•-. X-u 'ii' 

■PKn ®: :; 




4** . 





Kr.' 4 > 

A * 





s‘^ 




• * 1 • .*f 

ij.- ■ :• "''^.■■^:ilJe!! 

y^V-P'. V., 

:p ^^‘i ■ ^ -r-. ■ ■■ -» ' - 13 -% 



.ji-*-' . * iL. V •" 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


113 


So the picture is like Mademoiselle your Sister/^ said Count 
Carlo, slowly. That I did not know. It was painted for an old 
friend of mine whom I call Mademoiselle Faith.^’ 

Some lady whom you know, monsieur ? ” said Margie in be- 
wilderment. 

Whom I knew long ago, when I was a little boy — like you.^’ 
Count Carol laid his hand on Hubert’s shoulder, and his 'dark eyes 
grew soft and dreamy. I had no mother, and she took care of 
me. She led me to good men, like those in the picture, who taught 
me to clasp my little hands and pray, to kneel atT-he altar ; she was 
very good to me this- — Mademoiselle — Faith. Theib when I grew 
older, she tried still to hold me near her, but — but I broke away.” 

As we ran away from Corinne yesterday,” said Margie, nod- 
ding. 

Yes,” answered the Count, with his dark smile. 

It is so much more cheerful to be naughty,”, sighed Margie, 
^^but there is the bread and water afterward. Though perhaps 
monsieur never went back ? ” 

Never,” replied the Count. It has been long years since I 
left her, but one day six months ago I was passing near this 
little church at the time of the pilgrimage. I looked into the open 
window, and there I saw her kneeling like this before the altar. 
With my kodak I took the picture, that I might paint in lasting 
colors the friend of long ago.” 

Long ago ? ” repeated Margie. But she can not be old — and 
look like this.” 

Ah, yes, she is old and yet young — old as the stars, young as 
the flowers.” 

And will you never see her again ? ” asked Hubert, sympa- 
thetically. 

That I do not know,” answered Count Carlo. Perhaps, 
perhaps when I am dying she will come and take my hand. But 
bah ! ” with a reckless change of tone, she will not have time. 
It will be — pouf! a shot, a sword flash, and I will be gone — to the 
devil without doubt, as Mademoiselle Faith will know.” 

Monsieur le Comte ! ” called a surly voice at the door, and one 


114 


C0RINNW8 row. 


of the dark-browed Gipsies appeared on the threshold. A mes- 
senger from the shore. There is a boat at the Kock.’’ 

For us, for us/^ cried the children, eagerly. ^^0 Monsieur, you 
will speak for us, you will beg mamma and Corinne not to punish 
us too much. You will tell them what great danger and trouble 
we have been in ? ” 

Yes, yes ” — again the dark smile flitted over the handsome 
face — I will tell them all ; this you may be sure. Stay here while 
I go alone and make your peace. Come down in the garden, and 
stay with Babette until I call.’’ 

And as the little captives scrambled down the stairs. Count 
Carlo turned to the man who had just summoned him. Are the' 
men on guard ? ” 

Yes, six of them, hidden in the bushes above the shore. Mon- 
sieur should be on guard, too, for the messenger who comes — is — 
a woman.” 


CHAPTER X. 

IN THE DEN OF THE WOLF. 

Corinne had found it difficult to escape from Mont Aigle. Old 
Antoine’s death had added to the terror and confusion of the 
household. The servants were too panic-stricken to fulfil their 
ordinary duties; Madame Lamar, never very strong, had suc- 
cumbed completely as the daylight brought no tidings of her lost 
boy; even old Vincent, after he had performed the last sad offices 
for his old comrade, seemed dazed by the shock of his death, and sat 
jabbering and mumbling in the chimney corner. Old Antoine, 
rigid and calm on his bier in the stone chapel, seemed the only one 
at peace in the Tower of the Eagles. And still on Corinne fell all 
the burden of the day. She had to arouse, to encourage, to direct 
every one. 

Clinging to the desperate hope that had come to her at old An- 
toine’s bedside, she dared not speak of it even to Huldah. She 
felt that this faithful creature would rise in fierce opposition to 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


115 


her purpose, and think her young mistress mad to venture from a 
house surrounded by desperadoes, as Mont Aigle was now. So that 
it was noonday before Corinne, with her pearls concealed on her 
breast, found the opportunity to steal away unobserved to the road 
that led down the cliffs. 

All was still; no rude voice or footstep disturbed the silence; 
there was only the twitter of the birds nestling under the rocky 
ledge, the murmur of the waves dashing on the beach below. 
Corinne walked on past old Vincent’s cottage, with its bit of 
broken fencing, when a sudden sound beneath attracted her at- 
tention. The birds, too, were whirring wildly about her, as if 
drawn to the spot from afar. Pausing, she peered cautiously over 
the tangle of vines and shrubs that edged the cliff, and saw, perched 
on a jutting rock below. Fanfare, the idiot grandson of old Vincent. 
He had a queer little wooden whistle in his mouth, with which he 
was giving the call that seemed to strangely excite his feathered 
neighbors, while the ragged cap he held between his knees was 
filled with stolen grain. Htinfare was one of Corinne’s failures. 
Since her coming to Mont Aigle she had tried to teach, to reform, 
to civilize him, in vain. Letters, figures, nay, often-spoken words, 
had no meaning for him. He lived in a confused world of his 
own, among the birds that nestled on the cliffs, and with whom he 
seemed to have some strange sympathy. Perhaps because they did 
not mock at the goiter that hung down upon poor Fanfare’s throat, 
or hoot at his weazened arms and legs, for Fanfare was a creton — 
both in mind and body. In all his fourteen years of wretched life 
no one had ever given him such thought or care as Corinne, and in 
a dull, bewildered way he seemed to feel and wonder at it. 

Fanfare,” she called, softly. 

Fanfare flung his capful of grain to the wind and started, 
blinking, to his feet. It is mam’selle,” he stammered. 

Yes; I am coming down to the beach. I want a boat. Fan- 
fare.” 

A boat, mam’selle ? ” repeated the idiot, gaping at her. 

Yes ; you have one, I know. Fanfare. You keep it hidden so 
the boys will not take it from you, and at night, when the moon is 


116 


CORINNE’S VOW. 


shining, you go out and fish. Your grandfather has told me that 
you often catch more than two men can in a day’s work.” 

Yes ” — a feeble smile flickered on Fanfare’s dull face — 
that is true, mam’selle, that is true. Mam’selle wants Fanfare 
to catch fish for her to-night ? ” 

No, no ; I want your boat. Fanfare. Your father’s is gone, so 
I can not have that.” 

Little monsieur took it,” said Fanfare, with a sudden flash of 
intelligence, little monsieur and little mam’selle. The storm 
caught them in its teeth. Does mam’selle know ? ” He stopped 
blankly, as if unable to grasp the next thought. 

That they were out in the storm ? Yes,” answered Corinne. 
And I must go look for them. Fanfare. Little mam’selle was my 
sister, you know.” 

Again Fanfare paused, fingering his ragged cap as if trying to 
grasp an idea. But the poor dulled brain refused the task. Mam’- 
selle is good,” he said at last, slowly. ^^What mam’selle says, 
Fanfare will do.” 

Lend me your boat, then. I will pay you well for it. You 
shall have two silver pieces that will buy you a new hat and a pair 
of shoes,” said Corinne, eagerly. The boat. Fanfare, the boat.” 

Yes, mam’selle, yes ; I will find it for you — I will find it.” 
And making a wild scramble down the cliff Fanfare plunged 
into a hollow cunningly masked with vines and shrubs at its base, 
and before Corinne could reach his side he had dragged out upon 
the beach the rude little boat that was the pride of his eyes and the 
treasure of his life. At another time Corinne would have hesitated 
to trust herself in anything so rude and slightly built, but she was 
reckless of her safety now. 

Fanfare will row mam’selle,” said the idiot, proudly, as he 
launched his clumsy bark on the waves, holding it with a ragged 
rope. 

No, no,” answered Corinne, hastily. I go alone. Listen, 
Fanfare. Here is one of the silver pieces I promised you — and ” — 
she drew a small tablet from her pocket and scribbled a few lines 
on one of its leaves — if I am not here when the sun goes down 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


117 


on the waters this evening, take this to Mont Aigle and Madame 
Lamar will give you five more/^ 

Yes, mam’selle/’ The idiot looked in a troubled way from the 
boat to the speaker, but his confidence in mam’selle’s “ goodness ” 
overruled all the half-formed doubts that were buzzing confusedly 
in his bewildered brain, and he stood staring in mingled pride and 
anxiety as Corinne stepped into his little boat and pushed with 
feverish energy from the shore. 

The waves were dancing blithely to-day; there was no cloud 
in the sky. In those sunny days at Saint Pierre, that now seemed 
like a morning dream. Jack Ruthven had taught Corinne to row, 
and it required little effort to send Fanfare’s frail boat skimming 
swiftly over this placid sea. Soon the cliffs of Mont Aigle were 
left far behind, and the island of San Marco rose in clear, sharp 
outline upon the sunlit waves. Strong-souled as our heroine was, 
we can not say that she approached it without fear. She knew 
these scattered islands that fringed the coast, too small and numer- 
ous to watch or guard, had always been the resort of lawless men. 
From their vantage points of rock and peak the fugitives from jus- 
tice or vengeance could watch all approach, and be prepared to 
resist or flee, as circumstances might suggest. Perhaps fierce, 
angry eyes were fixed upon her even now. As she rowed nearer Co- 
rinne strove to steady her wildly beating heart by recalling the 
various encouraging things she had heard of late concerning this 
outlaw of coast and frontier, this Loupgarou, who was at once the 
peasants’ terror and pride. Fierce, lawless, crime-stained as he was 
painted, popular prejudice was strong in his favor. True, he 
preyed on the rich, but he fed the poor. 

And Corinne had heard only last night, in the excited chatter 
of the servants’ hall, stories that put Loupgarou on a level with 
the good genie of the olden fairy tale. For had not the Widow 
Garroche, when her children were ill with a fever, and she had 
neither food nor medicine, found a purse of gold hanging to her 
door-latch? And Tante Susette, weeping for the loss of her only 
cow, had had ten pieces of silver dropped in her cabin window. 
While, strangest of all, was the story of good Pere Perrault, who 


118 


CORINNE^S TOW. 


was an old saint and could not tell a lie. Pere Perrault, who, 
going on a sick-call across the mountains, lost his way, and was 
guided by a stranger, who put the holy man on his own horse and 
guided him reverently into safety, placing in his hand at parting 
a gift for ^^God’s little ones,^^ that fairly took away the good priesPs 
breath. If it were the Loupgarou who did all these things (of 
which there seemed no doubt), surely he could not be altogether 
cruel and pitiless and wicked. 

And Corinne rallied her sinking courage and, whispering a 
prayer to Our Lady of Good Help, steered boldly to the shore of 
San Marco, where a great black boulder jutting out into the water 
formed a sort of natural wharf, that was known far and near as 
Pirate’s Eock, as the island itself had gained the name of Pirate 
Island. Closer and closer to the shore drew the little skiff, and now 
Corinne turned the prow to the rock, and, resting on her oars, 
scanned the scene around her. Ho one was visible, not even a 
spiral of smoke betrayed any human presence near. Yet six pairs 
of watchful eyes followed her every motion, six ready muskets 
waited for the least sign of treachery or betrayal. 

Ah,” thought Corinne, perhaps, after all, she had been mis- 
taken,” as her keel grated against the black, silent rocks, and then 
suddenly a tall, handsome man seemed to rise out of the thicket 
that fringed the beach. 

May I help mademoiselle to the shore ? ” he asked, courte- 
ously. The rocks are like the teeth of a saw here, and it is not 
safe to bring a boat too close.” 

She gave him her hand, and he assisted her up on the black 
rock, throwing the rope of her little boat about another smaller 
boulder near. It is true,” he continued, with a smile, you are 
Mademoiselle Faith.” 

Ho, monsieur,” she answered, quite reassured by his courtesy, 
I am Mademoiselle Meridith, from Mont Aigle, where I teach 
Madame Lamar’s children.” 

It is the same,” he continued. But by the other name you 
have greater claim on me, mademoiselle.” 

I do not understand you, monsieur,” answered Corinne, with 


CORINNE'S VOW. 


119 


simple dignity, though her heart was beating like a fluttering bird 
in her breast. We have never met before. Why I have ventured 
here to-day I will explain. My little pupils, my sister and her 
playmate, Hubert Lamar, were, as we sadly fear, lost while out 
boating in yesterday’s storm. The poor old man whom we sent 
out to search for traces of them was struck senseless by a murder- 
er’s blow as he reached the door last evening.” 

Murdered ! My God ! Poor old man ! For what ? ” was the 
fierce query. 

Ah, monsieur, I do not know, except that there is hate and 
wrong and cruelty all around us. But, though unconscious, poor 
Antoine muttered words in his death struggle that made me hope 
wildly, foolishly perhaps, that I would find the children here.” 

You are right. They are here, mademoiselle.” 

Here ! My God, I thank Thee ! ” cried Corinne, fervently. 

Here, monsieur ! And safe and well ? ” 

Safe and well, mademoiselle, and, I may add, happy but for 
one fear, and that is of you and your bread and water.” 

But she did not catch his lighter words. In the relief, the re- 
laxation from the terrible strain of suspense, she had buried her 
face in her hands, and was sobbing pitifully. 

Mademoiselle ” — the speaker’s voice was low and gentle as a 
woman’s now — ^^do not grieve. All danger is past. I can not 
tell you how distressed I am that you should have been caused such 
anguish. The unfortunate old man bore a message that would have 
assured you of the children’s safety. Le Loupgarou is not quite 
the monster he is painted, mademoiselle.” 

Le Loupgarou! Corinne lifted tearful eyes, wide with 
horror and amazement, to the speaker’s face. ‘^You, monsieur, 
you ! It is impossible.” 

Aye, I, mademoiselle. I might tell you that there are worse 
men who do not bear so evil a name, but it would be useless. I am 
Carlo of San Marco, the last of a noble name, which men say I 
have dishonored and disgraced. We will let that pass, too. I will 
only say of the children that, believing they belonged to the rich 
Americans of Mont Aigle, I held them for ransom — a wicked, law- 


120 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


less thing, no doubt, mademoiselle, but no worse in my mind than 
your American way of holding at robber rates the wheat and the 
grain, that brings want and starvation to thousands of homes — ” 

I have brought the ransom,” said Corinne, hastily. As well 
as I could understand poor Antoine^s dying ravings, monsieur, it is 
ten thousand francs. I have not the money, for within the last few 
months I have lost all — the fortune that once was mine. But I 
have brought you these, which are worth even more than you ask.” 
And she held up the box that contained her pearls, touching the 
.spring that he might see the treasures, shimmering on the azure 
velvet within. 

^^Mademoiselle, no,” said San Marco, his dark face flushing. 

These are yours, and I will not touch them. It was from the rich 
mistress of Mont Aigle that I demanded the money, not from you 
your jewels.” 

Margie is my sister,” answered Corinne, and Madame 
Lamar knows nothing of your demand. She thinks the children 
drowned, and I dared not kindle hopes that even I feared were 
wild and baseless. For God’s sake, monsieur, have pity on her 
grief. Take the jewels and restore the children.” 

He looked at the fair young face, so pale, so pure, so lovely, and 
for the first time in long, reckless years Carlo of San Marco felt 
the sting of shame. He had robbed women before. They had 
shrieked and wept, implored and threatened him, and he had only 
laughed at it all as a part of his lawless trade. But he could not 
laugh now. In the innocent depths of Corinne’s anxious eyes he 
seemed to see all that he was — a creature beyond her comprehen- 
sion, her pity, even her reproach. 

Mademoiselle,” he said, almost harshly, I am not the brute 
rumor makes me. If I demanded ransom from Mont Aigle, it was 
that I might give it to those whom the master of Mont Aigle has 
robbed, as we simple country people think, of their time, their 
hopes, their living. An eye for an eye, a tooth for 'a tooth, and a 
life for a life is our wild mountain law. Biit old Antoine’s death, 
the grief and suspense I have caused you, are beyond all price. The 
little ones are yours, mademoiselle, without the jewels, without 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


121 


ransom, without — nay, I forget, there is one condition which I 
have pledged my word, and to which you must agree, mademoi- 
selle/^ 

If it be possible, monsieur,” she said, her voice still troubled. 

^^They shall tell you themselves,” he said, putting a silver 
whistle to his lips and sounding a shrill, clear note. It was the sig- 
nal to Babette to set her little captives free. 

Off with you,” said the old woman, nodding to the children. 
The master is calling for you ; off with you to the shore.” And 
racing, scrambling, nearly flying through the pine grove and over 
the rocks, came the two little truants. 

Corinne, Corinne ! Mademoiselle Corinne ! ” they cried, 
breathlessly, as in speechless gratitude she caught them in her arms, 
oh, forgive us ; ask mamma to forgive us.” 

Yes, forgive us, mademoiselle,” said Count Carlo, smiling ; 
that is the sole condition — forgive us and let us off the bread and 
water diet. Ah, Mademoiselle Faith, we older ones who have run 
away can not expect pardon or mercy. But on these little ones, ah, 
mademoiselle, one must not be too hard. So ten thousand francs’ 
worth of forgiveness, mademoiselle, or — or they can not go home.” 

Ah, you naughty ones, you naughty ones ! ” Corinne was 
smiling radiantly through tears. Monsieur, I promise they shall 
not be punished, for we all have suffered enough. And — and — for 
you — how can we thank you, monsieur ? ” 

Ah, we can not, we can not,” cried both children, as they 
clasped Count Carlo’s hand, enthusiastically. Ah, he has been 
so good ; he pulled us out of the water and saved our lives. And 
showed us so many beautiful things, Corinne ! Oh, if you could 
only see them ! And such pears and plums and apricots grow in 
his gardens. And there are Gipsies in the woods, real Gipsies ! ” 
chattered Margie. 0 Corinne, if you could come up and see 
them ! ” 

^^And Count Carlo must come up to Mont Aigle and let 
mamma thank him for his goodness,” said Hubert, hospitably. 

Then it was that Corinne looked up at Count Carlo,” and he 
saw in her face the pity, the tenderness, the reproach, that he felt 


122 


CORINNE'S VOW, 


his Mademoiselle Faith should have for the truant who had 
wandered beyond mercy and pardon. 

Does Hubert ask in vain ? Can that never be^ monsieur ? ’’ 
she asked. 

Never, mademoiselle.^^ 

You have shown yourself brave and generous and kind,” she 
continued. Monsieur, in other lands — my own, perhaps — ^you 
could find another life, another name.” 

I wish none, mademoiselle. The name, the race, the curse 
which fools say belong to it, will die with me here, on my native 
shores. But for the grace of your words, of your look, I thank you, 
mademoiselle. The children will doubtless tell you how months 
ago I, a hunted, desperate man, hiding in the woods around the 
little pilgrimage chapel, saw you kneeling before the altar of Le 
Bon Secours. Mademoiselle, you recalled to me, as no one else has 
ever done, the faith of my boyhood — the faith that was my inherit- 
ance from a long and saintly line, the faith from which I have 
turned, indeed, but whose strength and beauty and sweetness I 
can not forget. There is no hope for me, mademoiselle. I ask no 
pity, no charity, no mercy; but — but the faith of the old Crusader, 
that has been the light of the San Marcos for seven hundred years, 
shines still even for me, the last of the race.” 

Then there is hope for you, and charity and forgiveness, and 
all that faith brings,” said Corinne, earnestly. 

Not for me, mademoiselle,” he answered, his face darkening. 

My path is chosen, I can not turn back. Come, little truants, 
the boat is waiting. Ah, such a boat ! I would not trust you in it, 
but the sea is like a mirror to-day. Can you handle those oars, 
Hubert, they are too clumsy for mademoiselle? So, then, take 
care of the rocks. All in, now. Do not forget San Marco. Fare- 
well, farewell.” And in a low voice that only reached Corinne’s 
ear, Farewell forever. Mademoiselle Faith.” 

He pushed off the boat at the words, and stood on the Pirate’s 
Rock, waving his hand and smiling until the children were far 
away — Hubert and Margie rowing now, and chattering volubly of 
all their wonderful adventures, while Fanfare’s little skiff skimmed 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


123 


lightly over the placid waters, and San Marco grew d iin in the dis- 
tance, and Corinne listened like one who hears in a dream. 

And still with that same dreamy feeling, as if all things were 
unreal about her, she reached the cliffs of Mont Aigle, and with the 
rescued little truants pushed up to the shore, where Fanfare 
watched and waited for his boat. Putting the promised silver 
piece in his hand, she followed the gleeful children up the steep, 
rocky road toward the house, whose gloom was soon to be scat- 
tered into radiant gladness. But to Corinne even this thought 
appeared part of this strange, unreal dream. 

Through the garden, past poor Antoine’s flowering oleanders, 
up to the trellis gate where he had fallen — then the care for others 
that had become a second nature roused in Corinne. “Wait, 
wait,” she whispered. “ Come through the kitchen hall into the 
dining-room. I must prepare mamma for the shock of seeing you. 
Come, come softly in here, before the servants see you and rouse 
the house with their cries.” 

And, passing through the low kitchen hallway, Corinne entered 
the dining-room, when Margie, pressing eagerly behind, uttered a 
cry of joy. For there at the table, where old Huldah was just 
serving a plain but bountiful supper, sat a familiar flgure, one 
who started up rapturously when Corinne appeared on the 
threshold. Stunned, bewildered, she stood, scarcely believing her 
own eyes. It was Margie’s voice that broke the silence. “ Cousin 
Jack ! ” she cried, joyfully. “ Oh, ’tis Cousin Jack ! ” 


CHAPTER XI. 

TRIED AND TRUE. 

It was Cousin Jack, indeed — Cousin Jack, with his brown eyes 
shining with gladness, his strong arms ready to protect, to defend, 
his true heart beating with love and hope. Cousin J ack, who, with 
the ardor and impatience of the true American lover, could not 


124 


C0RINNE^8 VOW. 


wait for letter or cablegram, but had asked leave of absence, and 
had come to plead his own cause. 

How all the burdens and cares she had borne so patiently 
seemed to slip from Corinne as his outstretched hands clasped hers, 
and he stood radiant and strong before her, while the wild wave of 
joy she could no longer control went surging through the stricken 
household, and little monsieur was fairly caught up by the servants 
and borne to his mother’s arms ! What weeping and laughing and 
chattering there was everywhere, save in the dim chapel, where 
poor Antoine lay silent and stark and cold ! And how the grate- 
ful mother, when at last the story of the rescue was made clear to 
her, blessed Corinne. 

But J ack Euthven paled under his tropic bronze. It was 
madness, the madness of self-devotion! My God, had I known 
where you were 1 They told me you were sleeping in your room, 
worn out with grief and suspense.” 

De Lord knows I thought so, too, Marse Jack,” cried old 
Huldah, tremulously. I done see she was nachally ’stracted las’ 
night, but I nebba thought she was gwine to run off arter dem chil- 
d’un by herself. But de angels was a leading her, Marse Jack — de 
angels was a leading her, shuah.” 

Angels ! ” echoed Euthven, impatiently. By heaven, if 
there is law in this miserable place I will rouse fiercer visitors than 
angels upon these scoundrels. To war upon helpless women and 
children I The cowards, the curs ! I have a mind to go for this 
Wolf, or whatever they call him, myself. I believe one sturdy 
American with a six-shooter could capture him and his whole 
pack.” 

Oh, no, no,” pleaded Corinne. You do not know him.” 
And when she had told more of that strange interview on the 
Pirate’s Eock, even Cousin J ack was conscious of a reluctant sym- 
pathy for the outlaw who was so far from the light and hope that 
made the joy of his own life. 

Poor devil ! ” he said, half pityingly. I believe you could 
venture into Hades itself, Corinne, and find some one to kiss the 
hem of your gown.” 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


125 


But our gallant sailor was no sentimentalist about law-break- 
ers. He took command of Mont Aigle at once, and, with the vigor 
and energy of his own country, soon aroused the authorities strong 
enough to enforce justice and order. Before poor Antoine was 
laid to rest his murderer was in the iron grasp of the law, some 
half-dozen other arrests were made, and Laroche became sud- 
denly the mildest and meekest of mountain hamlets. But, though 
the blue-coated gendarmes scoured island and shore for the outlaw 
Loupgarou, they could find no trace of him or his band. The old 
chateau of the San Marco stood deserted in the sunlight, the fires 
of the Gipsy camp were in ashes, no human creature was visible. 
The Wolf of San Marco had vanished utterly. 

But his memory remained, and with the terror of those days 
of loss fresh in her mind Madame Lamar could not remain in 
Mont Aigle. The day after old Antoine’s funeral she removed with 
all her family to a beautiful villa near Mentone, to await her hus- 
band, who had cabled to her his speedy return. And then — then 
Corinne felt her kind friend would need her no more, and she and 
Margie must go. For welcome though she would ever be in the 
Lamar household, Hubert’s mother could not forget the hours of 
anguish she owed to reckless little Margie, and had conceived a 
prejudice against the child she could not overcome. 

And though in the beautiful days that followed Corinne seemed 
to rest, her thoughts were busy with the future, and she was quietly 
making her plans for the dreary, cheerless time to come. 

The doctor had peremptorily ordered rest and recreation for all 
after the shock and strain of those last days in Mont Aigle. Hence, 
lessons were abandoned, and with Cousin Jack as guide and escort 
they explored the beautiful environs of this paradise of the Med- 
iterranean — Bordighera, with its palms, the bone caverns, the 
queer old monastery of L’Annunziata, the ruins of the Sara- 
cens’ tower. And always and everywhere Cousin Jack was at 
Corinne’s side, strong, gentle, watchful, protecting; one on whom 
her woman’s heart whispered she could lean without fear or doubt. 
It was on one of these beautiful days that they set out for a picnic 
— American fashion — on a hill where some old Roman ruins still 


126 


coRiNNws row. 


stood in the shadow of an olive grove, Max, who had been rejoic- 
ing greatly at his old master’s reappearance, bounding before them, 
and Huldah, with her well-packed lunch basket, bringing up the 
rear. Euthven had paused on his way to purchase a little peasant 
girl’s offered flowers — roses, heliotrope, jonquil, all the varied and 
gorgeous blossoms of this enchanted land — and as thus laden he 
walked*beside her, Corinne recalled the violets of Saint Pierre, that 
had borne Love’s first whisper to her heart. Ah, there had been hope 
in their breath, a sweet, faint, budding hope, but now — now her 
path lay through arid ways, where no flower of Love must bloom. 

Kuthven’s ear caught the unconscious sigh almost as it was 
breathed. “ You are tired,” he said, with quick anxiety. I for- 
get that you are not quite as strong as you were six months ago. 
Sit down here for awhile, and rest.” 

Oh, no,” said Margie, there is a much nicer place farther 
on. Cousin Jack — a big, flat stone that will do for a table, and a 
lovely little spring bubbling out of the rock.” 

Eun on and find it, then — you and Max and Huldah,” said 
Cousin J ack. Corinne and I will rest for awhile here.” 

Ah, you want to make love to her,” said the irrepressible Mar- 
gie, with a saucy nod. But it is no use ; she won’t have you, or 
anybody else, I know.” 

There ought to be a guillotine invented for les enfants terri- 
bles like that young person,” said Euthven, with a forced laugh — 
some kindly device that would nip off half their tongues. But 
the little witch is clear-sighted. I am a fool to linger here, plead- 
ing, hoping, wearying you, Corinne.” 

Wearying me ! Oh, no, no,” she replied, hastily ; not that.” 

They had paused beneath a crumbling old stone arch that dated 
back to the days of ancient Eome. All around were the fragments 
of pillars that had once been a mighty roadway before the Star of 
Bethlehem beamed over the hills of Judea. An olive grove had 
grown up around them, and its silvery green shadows seemed to 
guard and veil these relics of a heroic past. Corinne seated her- 
self on a rock that might have been the stone of a shattered altar, 
while Euthven leaned against the arch above her. 


CORmNE'8 VOW. 


127 


^^The six weeks’ leave of absence that I moved heaven and 
earth to gain is half gone and — and I have accomplished noth- 
ing,” he continued. If I had found you cold, heartless, even in- 
different, I might have turned away from you and borne my fate 
like a man. But you have been gentle, kind, pitiful, everything 
but yielding. Such a will I have never confronted before, even in 
the strongest of men. You are an anomaly to me, Corinne. I do 
not ask you to love me — at once. I will trust to teaching you that 
sweet lesson in the future. Ah, I do ask that you will let me love 
you, care for you, shield you from the perils, the trials of a world 
in which you stand alone and helpless ! ” 

Will it make things harder for you if I tell you the truth? ” 
she asked in a low voice that trembled as if she were striking 
chords that she feared to touch. 

" Ho,” he answered, almost bruskly. Give me the truth at 
any cost, the truth in all its bitterness.” 

Why, I can not marry you, you know,” she went on. My 
life is vowed to Margie.” 

Folly, folly,” he said. Mere cobwebs of conscience, Corinne, 
that Love would sweep from its path with a touch.” 

Ah, no, no,” she answered. A vow to the dying is no cob- 
web of conscience.” 

^^But when the dying are blinded, besotted with accursed 
selfishness ! ” he continued, passionately. Corinne, you were 
dazed, bewildered, to listen to such a mad, cruel prayer.” 

You mistake,” she answered, quietly. It was one of those 
solemn moments when the soul is supreme over all its surround- 
ings. I felt that my dead father, even more than Margie’s mother, 
was claiming from me this duty — this sacrifice, if you will. For in 
all the wide world there is no one to whom he would trust his 
child as he would to me. And now that she is poor and friendless 
and homeless, it is more than ever a sacred duty to take her dead 
mother’s, nay, her dead father’s, place.” 

Take the place, then, if you must, Corinne, and let me share 
it with you. 0 my beloved, think of the long years of struggle, of 
weariness, of loneliness before you. Let Margie be our joint care.” 


128 


CORINNE’S VOW. 


Ah, no.” She shook her head with a sad smile. Margie 
can not be shared. She is like the babe of the old Jewish story. 
As your wife, my first duty would be to you and not to her. And I 
would not bring you such a burden, such a responsibility. I ” — the 
sweet voice grew lower and softer — “ I love you too well.” 

Corinne ! ” He turned to her with all his soul in his raptured 

eyes. 

Yes,” she continued, simply, I tell you the truth, as I prom- 
ised you. At first at Saint Pierre I did not know ; I was not sure. 
But all these sad months the thought of you has been my comfort, 
my strength, my joy. I know now that I love you, and hopeless as 
men and women would call this love, which can not end in mar- 
riage, it is very sweet to me, and will brighten and gladden all my 
life.” 

Hopeless ! Great heaven, Corinne ! Hopeless, when you can 
speak like this,” he cried, his voice tremulous with emotion, when 
you say love will brighten and gladden your life? ” 

Yes; it is better to have seen the light, even if one must be 
blind forever after,” she answered. It is better to have the mem- 
ory of sweet music than never to have heard. It is better to have 
learned the strength and sweetness and joy and pain of this love, 
which is the pulse of our human nature. I thank God for it. Since 
I must live in the world, I am glad my heart has wakened and I 
have learned to love.” 

Her soft eyes were shining, her voice had a new cadence ; the 
shy, silent chords were trembling into clear, sweet music now. 

And I will be better, wiser, happier even, for this love which 
you have given me, which you have taught me, and which will be 
the sweetest, dearest memory of my life. My plans are nearly 
fixed ; it is right that you should know them. I have heard of a 
position as English teacher in a pensionnat in Eouen, where Mar- 
gie will be admitted as a pupil in return for my services.” 

For your slavery, you mean ! Corinne, you will drive me to 
desperation by this madness of self-sacrifice. 0 my beloved, it is 
my life that you are wrecking as well as your own. Has that 
thought no weight with you, Corinne ? God knows whither I will 


CORINNE^S YOV/. 


129 


drift when you cast me off. You have held me to all that is high- 
est, purest, holiest.” 

‘^And you will hold to all this still,” she answered, gently. “ My 
heart tells me you will always be worthy of its love, its trust ; that 
1 will always be proud of you ; that — She paused abruptly, for 
Hubert came flying up the grassy slope, breathless with excitement ; 

Monsieur Euthven — mademoiselle — ah ! Such news ! Such 
cruel news ! They have taken him, mademoiselle. Ah, mon 
Dieu, the gendarmes have taken him. They have shot him through 
and through, for he fought like a lion at bay. Ah, mademoiselle, 
and he was so kind, so brave, so beautiful.” And Hubert burst into 
uncontrollable boyish tears. 

Who ? What in heaven's name — what does he mean ? ” ex- 
claimed Euthven, in bewilderment. 

But the answer flashed upon Corinne. San Marco,” she whis- 
pered, with paling cheek. Is it he, Hubert — Le Loupgarou f ” 

Yes, mademoiselle, yes. Ah, if I had been but near, to flght 
for him ! All the town is alive with the news ; they are talking of it 
everywhere. There was such a reward on his head, they have 
been watching the mountain passes, the roads. Ah, mon Dieu, 
mon Dieu, he was too brave, too bold, to hide, and now they have 
him, shot nearly to death, in the barracks up in Eicon Pass.” 

Hying ? ” she asked, in horror. 

‘'^Yes, mademoiselle; so the people say; dying with his lips 
shut tight, and asking for no pity, no mercy, neither for doctor 
nor for priest. Here comes mamma, who will tell you the same. 
Mamma has been crying, too.” And Madame Lamar, who, with 
Estelle, had followed Hubert at a safer pace, appeared on the brow 
of the hill in great agitation. 

0 my dear, my dear, I thought we had done with shocks for 
awhile, but my nerves are all gone again. He was so good to the 
children — you know he was, Corinne — the poor, unfortunate, splen- 
did fellow ! I don’t believe one-half the dreadful things they say 
about him are true, for he was a gentleman born. And to be 
hunted down like a wild beast at last. They say he stood with his 
back against one of the mountain rocks, and fought like a lion until 


130 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


he fell. And they are ringing bells and shouting in that silly little 
town as if a kingdom had been conquered. Twenty thousand 
francs offered for him, dead of alive. I call that barbarous, sim- 
ply barbarous. Just as if he was a wolf indeed, and not a baptized 
Christian, with an immortal soul.” 

A soul, indeed,” echoed Corinne ; a poor, sinful soul ! Oh, 
he was kind and brave and generous, in spite of his crimes. Can 
we do nothing for him, dear madame, nothing ? ” 

Nothing, my dear, nothing,” answered that impulsive lady, 
hopelessly. There is not a shadow of a chance for him, and if 
there were they have him shut up in that miserable little guard- 
house at Picou Pass, that is not fit to shelter a brute beast. And 
there the last of the San Marcos — for everybody agrees he comes of 
one of the noblest lines in this part of Europe — there the last of a 
princely race is dying like a dog.” 

“ We must go to him,” said Corinne, resolutely. Dear 
madame, we must go. You have money, position, influence; that 
will gain you admission to him. Oh, think how goo f, how gener- 
ous he was to our helpless little children, and now dying, dying in 
despair, perhaps. Dear, dear friend, let us go.” 

Corinne, my dear child, wdiat could we do ? I would give ten 
thousand dollars down this minute to save him, but we can’t, my 
dear ; the poor creature is dying. He has not twelve hours to live.” 

But his soul, his poor, despairing soul ! ” said Corinne. “ Oh, 
I can not forget how he spoke to me of the faith, that he could not 
lose, that he could not shake off. And it is with him now in all 
its strength, its terror, its reproach. A kind word, a grateful, hope- 
ful word, may save him yet. Dear madame, let us go, and try to 
see him. Oh, can’t you help us ? ” And Corinne turned eagerly 
to Euthven. Won’t you take us to Picou Pass?” 

To Picou Pass, certainly,” he answered, quickly, but beyond 
that I can not say. The guards of a dying highwayman are not apt 
to have much sentiment for his situation. Still, as the poor devil 
is so far gone — ” 

And he was so good. 0 Monsieur Euthven, you do not 
know how good he was to us,” interposed Hubert, tearfully. 0 


CORINNE’8 VOW. 


131 


mamma, dear mamma, go to him, please. Take all the money in 
my bank and give it to a doctor to save him. 0 dear mamma, 
please go to poor Count Carlo.’^ And Hubert’s pleading prevailed, 
for his mother could not forget that but for the strong arm of the 
outlaw dying in Picou her boy would be fathoms deep in the sea 
that laved the treacherous rocks of San Marco. 

Ruthven yielded, with American gallantry, to what he felt him- 
self to be feminine sentiment. The children were sent home in 
Huldah’s care, and in one of the little Mentone voitures the ladies 
and their escort proceeded over the ten miles of mountain road that 
led to Picou Pass. But no vehicle could reach the wild, rocky 
defile, whose guard-house marked here the frontier between France 
and Italy. Alighting from their carriage, the party had to climb 
slowly the steep, rugged path that led through the gorge whose 
gloomy depths, surrounded by inaccessible mountain peaks, must 
have seemed, indeed, to the fierce, bold spirit prisoned therein, an 
abyss of despair. 

I told you I could not promise you admission,” said Ruth- 
ven, as at length they came within sight of the rudely fortified 
structure, surrounded by a cordon of gendarmes, but I will see 
what I can do with the captain of the guard.” 

The interview was doubtless satisfactory, for in a few moments 
Captain Vallette advanced, and was presented by Mr. Ruthven to 
Madame Lamar and Mademoiselle Meridith. 

It is a little irregular, perhaps,” said the gallant captain, 
bowing effusively, and showing a set of very dazzling teeth, but 
it is like the American ladies, who, as I have always known, are 
angels of pity and mercy.” 

Hot angels. Monsieur le Capitaine/* said Madame Lamar. 

We are simply a mother and sister grateful for precious young 
lives which this unfortunate prisoner of yours saved for us scarcely 
more than a month ago.” 

Ah, so I understand, so I understand,” said the captain. A 
brave man he was — ^brave, generous — ^but, ah, del, desperate. He 
fought, begging mademoiselle’s pardon, like ten devils in one. 
And so I fear the visit which you are so good as to propose may 


132 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


be only painful and without result, for he is wounded most terribly, 
ladies, and how he has lived so long I do not know. And whether 
he is conscious or not I can not say, for he lies silent without a 
moan or cry, not even asking for a drop of water. All we know 
is that he is breathing still.” 

Madame Lamar gave a little gasp. Then we can not do him 
any good,” she said, and paling visibly. Corinne dear, I do 
not think I could bear to see him. I — I would faint, I know. Take 
my purse, monsieur, and spend all that is in it freely, if there is 
anything that can ease his sufferings.” 

Ah, madame, no,” answered the officer ; he is quite beyond 
all help now.” 

No,” said Corinne, quickly, not beyond all help yet. Ma- 
dame, stay without if you must, but let me go in for one moment, 
and speak a pitying, helping word.” 

Go, my dear, then go,” said Madame Lamar, tremulously. 

I will sit on one of these stones and wait for you. I have not 
your nerve or your strength, dear. I could not bear to see the poor 
man, I know.” 

And the good lady sank down upon a rock near by, pale 
and shaken, while Corinne stepped forward to the guard-house 
with Captain Vallette, who motioned aside the sentinel, unlocked 
the door, and then left her to enter alone, for even Kuthven, who 
had followed with anxious step, paused upon the threshold. 

For a moment Corinne could see nothing, so dark was the 
narrow room, only faintly illumined by the light that came 
through two small barred windows. But as she advanced a few 
steps she descried the low cot, with its silent, motionless figure, 
growing clearer as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. 

Ah, the horror of the sight that met her gaze, the awful wreck 
of the strong, the proud, the daring, reckless man. Shattered, livid, 
blood-stained, shorn of all his beauty and power and grace and 
strength, she would never have recognized Carlo of San Marco in 
the dreadful shape before her. Another woman, young, sensitive, 
delicate as Corinne, would have shrunk in uncontrollable horror 
from the scene, but it was not of the body she thought. The soul 



“ Captain Vallette advanced and was presented hy Mr RutUveny 


•■ . I ' • j 






ii':' 

r 'J. -v 'JCf?J‘’: 

• iify* 1 

■ 

- * ■ 


T r 


I 



fl*«t 



% ^ 


!:♦ 




«« % 


* ♦ 


In 


:i • ♦ 


‘.V i' 






.. - » 









* . • * ■ #JP 

• "'^j 



:v*- 




T 




<• 'J 




^ ' r 


V iJT' 


'i * i •' . i 



> •« 


iiT 




/ I ^ 



V r 




kW. w i 4/; f ■ 


# 



ff 





,Vi 


A-: 




iA. 









#^P 


. i 


Rl 



L:(»i 




i^T 


4 ) 


. V 


vV 


•‘ . 




. /I 






I >• 



1 1 


< * -I 


f, 










9 • 


***' -*' ' • 




u Ml 




CORINNE'8 VOW. 


135 


was there still — the strong soul, dauntless even in its despair; the 
soul that might be saved for God and heaven yet. She knelt softly 
by the wretched couch, she laid a pitying hand on the bandaged 
head, and the dark eyes opened in a glance of startled gladness. 
From the livid lips came the faint whisper : 

Mademoiselle Faith ! It is, indeed, Mademoiselle Faith ! 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE VOW FULFILLED. 

^^Yes, it is I. Oh, let me help you,” said Corinne, striving 
vainly to steady her trembling voice. ^^You are suffering so 
much ! ” 

“ Aye,” he gasped, hoarsely, suffering the torments — of — 
hell. Water — one drop of water.” There was a soldier’s canteen 
beside him, and a tin cup. She filled this and held it to the livid, 
frothing lips. He swallowed the water with difficulty, but the 
dark eyes, the only features unmarred in the once handsome face, 
looked up at her with gratitude unspeakable.” 

“ Mademoiselle Faith,” he repeated, as he sank back upon his 
wretched pillow. Help — hope — ah, no ; too late — too late.” 

“ Ah, no, no, not too late,” she answered, eagerly. “ Not too 
late for the mercy of God. Remember, once you knew Him, once 
you loved Him, when you were a little child He is your Father 
still.” 

No,” he whispered. No ; His curse is on me. As I — have 
lived — I must die — the death of the wolf. I ask — nothing. It is 
just — 0 God ! yes — it is just.” 

But this — this is the hour of mercy, not of justice,” said the 
gentle comforter. And remember, you, too, have been merciful — 
to the widow, the orphan, the poor, the suffering, the sick. Ah, the 
good God has seen it all, and does not forget. There is time still 
to turn to Him to ask pardon — pardon for the sad. dark life which 
is past, hope for the better one to come.” 


136 


CORINNE’S VOW. 


no/’ he gasped again, with a fierce, despairing ges- 
ture of his helpless hand. Go, Mademoiselle Faith — do not 
mock me — all — is over — go. I am horrible to you — I know — 
this — this is no place — for you — this hell. Go. I am lost — 
lost — lost ! ” 

Not lost, my friend ; oh, no, no, no,” she cried. Let me send 
again for the good priest whom you would not see — for him 
who can speak to you in God’s name words of mercy and pardon 
and peace.” 

^^No, mademoiselle, no,” was the husky answer. ‘^You are 
good, you are an angel, but I — I can ask nothing — nothing of 
God — nothing — of man.” 

Ah, my son, my poor son, the good God sends His mercy un- 
asked,” said a voice behind Corinne, and an old priest, with snowy- 
white hair and dusty soutane, stepped out of the shadow to the 
dying bed. Ah, I would not listen to what they told me, that 
you were in despair, in unbelief. No, no, I came ; I nearly ran all 
the long way from Saint Simplice. Do you not remember me, my 
son — old Pere Perrault, whom you guided last year over the moun- 
tains to the dying Jean Bouchard, whom you placed on your 
own horse, walking beside him with bared head through the night, 
knowing the good God was with us in His Holy Sacrament ? Ah, 
my poor son, yes ; you have the faith yet in your heart, I know. 
God sends you His hope. His love even in this darkness — of death. 
Ah, yes, yes.” And the simple old man leaned forward with eyes 
streaming pitying tears, and clasped the outlaw’s icy hands in his 
own. ‘‘ See, I have come to you, my poor son, your friend, your 
father, in God’s name. Leave us, my good daughter, leave us ; it is 
all right, it is all right.” 

Mademoiselle Faith, yes,” gasped San Marco, and the dark 
eyes seemed to have suddenly softened into the eyes of a child. 
‘^It is as you said — Faith and Hope — and Charity — all three — 
even — even for Le Loupgarou. Mademoiselle — you have been — 
God’s angel to me. May He — bless you. Good-by.” With a 
painful effort he drew Corinne’s hand to his lips and kissed it rev- 
erently. She could not speak. With eyes blinded with tears of 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


137 


mingled joy and sadness, she turned to the door where Kuthven 
waited to lead her away. 

Le Loupgarou died that night. Far and near flew the story of 
his wild, reckless, lawless life, his death of defiant despair. Only 
the little group at Picou Pass knew the truth, that the last of the 
San Marcos had died a humble penitent, clinging to the Cross, 
that through all the changes of six hundred years had been the 
standard of that princely race — the Cross under whose shielding 
shadow even Le Loupgarou found refuge at the last. 

When Pere Perrault asked for the poor marred body he was not 
refused ; the sole condition was that it should be buried in silence 
and oblivion. 

Far up on the mountain pass the outlaw was laid to rest, in a 
grave blessed, consecrated in the midnight stillness, and years 
afterward, when a great granite cross rose upon the spot, none 
knew whence it came, save that it was the Crusader’s Cross, that 
had been the crest of the San Marcos for centuries. 

Eternal rest grant to them, 0 Lord,” was the prayer graved 
on the granite arms, that seemed outstretched in pleading and 
benediction in the mountain silence. And passers-by stopped to 
read the words, and believers echoed them reverently, and even 
scoffers felt their solemn warning, while the lawless turned in 
terror from the spot, and through the Crusader’s Pass,” as it 
was called, all could journey in peace and safety, for naught that 
was rude or evil ever ventured there. 

And so in death Le Loupgarou perhaps atoned, by God’s mercy, 
for his sinful life. 

It was a week after Corinne had heard the outlaw’s dying bless- 
ing. The sun was setting on beautiful Mentone. Beyond verdant 
reaches of terraced hills and vine-draped cliffs, the Mediterranean 
stretched, a sea of gorgeous tints, rose and purple, amber and gold, 
reflecting the shimmering glory of an opaline sky. A light evening 
breeze stirred the foliage and blossoms around the little music- 
room, where Euthven and Corinne stood looking out at the beauti- 
ful scene. 

It is perfect,” said Euthven, with a sigh. I have learned 


138 


CORINNE^S VOW, 


at Mentone what Adam felt when he turned his back on Paradise. 
Great heaven ! what happiness a man might find here if the fiery 
sword of the angel were not in the air above him. Yet — yet I sup- 
pose, even to those who are most blessed, a scene like this has its 
minor note. The shadows are falling, night is coming on.’’ 

^^Yes, there is always something sad in the sunset,” Corinne 
answered. The dawn to me is far more beautiful in its hope and 
gladness. I awoke at daybreak this morning and was rewarded. 
I saw the Fairy Isle rise out of the sea.” 

Is the Fairy Isle fact or fancy ? ” asked Euthven, listlessly. 

“ Both,” she answered, as if making an effort to brighten him. 
^Mn fact, it is Corsica visible only under certain atmospheric condi- 
tions. But in the fancy of all the good people here it is the Fairy 
Isle, a glimpse of which is prophetic of all things happy and for- 
tunate to come. Old Manette, the dairy woman, fairly embraced 
me in rapture when I told her what I had seen. ^ Ah, mademoi- 
selle, what joy for you to have seen the Fairy Isle ! It means all 
good, all blessed things the good God can give will be yours.’ ” 

Heaven speed the augury,” said Euthven. I will rouse at 
daybreak to-morrow and strain my eyes for the vision — perhaps — 
perhaps — but no, I have given up dreams of dawn. The sunset 
sadness suits me better. Ah, here is my old favorite, Schubert’s 
Ave Maria/* He had turned from the window and was looking 
over the sheets of music on the piano. “ Let us sing it once again 
together, in memory of those beautiful days at Saint Pierre.” 

I have not sung it since,” she answered, as she took her seat 
at the piano. It — it was poor papa’s favorite piece, and I learned 
it to please him. Mamma, my own dear mamma, used to sing it 
when she was a girl. I remember papa taking me on his knee 
when I was a little child, and telling me of their first meeting. He 
was a college boy and had gone to the convent near by, to see his 
old aunt, who was a nun. By some special privilege he was allowed 
to go into the chapel for benediction. Mamma was the soprano of 
the convent choir, a little white-veiled school-girl of seventeen. He 
saw her, he heard her sing this Ave Maria, and his boyish heart 
went out to her forever.” 


C0RINNW8 VOW. 


13£f 


She was like you ? ” asked Ruthven, sympathetically. 

People say so” Corinne answered, simply. I had not seen 
papa since I was fourteen, so, of course, he could not tell. And I 
never knew my own dear mother at all. But I have always pic- 
tured her as papa described her to me — a slender, white-veiled 
girl, standing in the stained light of the choir window, singing this 
Ave Maria with all her soul in her sweet young voice.’^ She struck 
the opening chords softly as she spoke, and began to sing, Ruth- 
ven’s rich tenor blending with her own voice and upbearing it, as 
the deep swell of the ocean upbears the cresting wave. 

Clear and sweet and full rose the angelic song that is voiced in 
every tongue over the Christian world, the celestial greeting that 
lifted woman to heights beyond mortal reach or ken, Ave Maria, 
gratia 'plena, Dominus tecum. 

And as their voices blended in the sweet, holy harmony Ruth- 
ven and Corinne both felt, with a new pang of bitterness, how close 
their souls were in this blest hour, how hard it would be to part, 
and pass into the silent ways where such music could never come. 
So rapt were both singers that the cry that broke upon their voices 
was at first unheard, and Estelle, who had been seated on the porch, 
reading, was before them, pale-faced and wide-eyed, before they 
noticed her. 

Mademoiselle — Monsieur Ruthven — there is a poor man with- 
out, ill, dying, I know not what. He came up the path and stag- 
gered back against a tree, where he is weeping, trembling. Ah, 
mademoiselle, I am so frightened. Come out and see what you 
can do for him, or he will die — die here at our door.’^ 

Corinne and Ruthven hurried out into the garden. As they 
stood there aureoled by the glory of the sunset, a figure staggered 
forward, as if blinded — dazed. It was a man, gray, worn, pale, 
haggard, but with something in the emaciated form, the wasted 
features, the hollow eyes, that held the startled girl speechless, 
motionless, almost breathless. 

Corinne, Corinne ! ” cried the stranger, stretching forth his 
arms. “ Is it my dead wife or my living child before me ? Corinne, 
have you forgotten me ; do you not know me ? ” 


140 


CORINNE^S VOW. 


My father, my father ! And with a wild cry of joy Corinne 
was clasped in the outstretched arms. “ 0 my God, what does it 
mean ? What miracle has ffiven you back to life, father dear — dear 
father?’^ 


^ :ic * He 

A miracle, indeed, but wrought by natural means that it took 
long hours of sweet converse, broken by tears and smiles and tender 
embraces, to explain. With the rapturous Margie perched on his 
knee, Corinne at his side, Ruthven and the kindly Lamars gath- 
ered around him, Arthur Meridith briefly told the story of his es- 
cape from death. 

He had been ill with the incipient fever which afterward mas- 
tered him when L'Imperatrice struck the rocks. Hearing the 
tumult of alarm above, he caught up the strong-box that contained 
his money and papers and tried to leave his stateroom. But a 
lurch of the doomed ship had flung him forward, and he fell, 
stunned and senseless, on the floor. How long he lay there uncon- 
scious of all peril he never knew, but he was roused at 'last — it 
seemed almost as if by a spoken call. 

The good angels to whom we were praying, Corinne and I,” 
interposed Margie, with a satisfied nod. Ah, how Corinne did 
make me pray ! ” I said the Eosary with her every day for you, 
papa.” 

Doubtless it was my children’s prayer, then, that saved me,” 
said Mr. Meridith, with tender gravity, for truly I was in no con- 
dition to save myself. When I roused — dazed, bewildered, my brain 
still whirling from shock, pain, coming fever — its last clear pur- 
pose was still paramount — I picked up my box again, and stag- 
gered — how I know not — ^to the deck. One-half of UImperatrice 
was under water ; the poop, still upheld by the fatal rocks on which 
she had driven, was deserted by every living creature. I was alone, 
facing a speedy, an inevitable death. Even my dulled sense 
seemed to quicken at the thought, and with a prayer to God for 
mercy and pardon, I was about to lash myself to a spar and be 



had been taken off my drifting boat by the sailors of an Italian 

war-ship." 




7*1 




'» 4 j 


* 








u. 


a> - 


_!kV‘ 






A' 


'. i 







■» V > ^ 


; < 




\ ^ 


.T . 


. ■ ’ T**d»^r**.“ 




t 

^ c 


r '• ‘-'^ii, -ill.’ ® 


•V' • 


>5 

v? -' - 






y.- - . .t j. I 


'I* * ^ ' 


••a > • 
• • r.ter. » 


^ *fe'^ • • >ar* ' 





^ v,i { , .< • -\.„ .,t^. ifp.'V. ^ . « ‘.j . . ^ 


i’ •« 

»» 




* r 





•i *i.’’'i’ 





LV’ 




t* i »' ' ,? 11 

i ' . j> ._ "_ "v ■ « • »^ _ . Ski^i 


• /<*V - 

^ , J' r%U 


%(^ 


»■ !»• ■; ., . ■ i'*' >i9SPM^i. - , r-i i ■ ■■ , iei >- «T -S,I ,t ,*i 

‘SAW*' " 'tf '-■■ ‘ '*''. ■'4.iL >ifeB3 

4 - . .' .• • i‘’ '\ r M*’" twnSmi 

I^SSit ^ A ' •. ' ifili ■''■IMtI • ' ^ ifil ; * ^v*t*v t f? 


'% 





J:^;m 

-■'" -■'' ' 

» fftV. . - V* 



CORINNE^S VOW. 


143 


ready for the worst, when I caught sight of a small boat, forgot- 
ten in the wild rush, still swinging from the half-submerged deck. 
I flung in my box, leaped in myself, and cut loose, desperately, 
from the fast-sinking wreck. 

I remember a long dream of starlit sky, of boundless sea, of 
sweet voices singing the vesper hymns of long ago, glimpses of 
painted cloud and wave, and then a blank. The fever had me in its 
fiery grasp, and I knew nothing for weeks, nay, months. 

When my senses slowly came back to me I was in a hospital 
in Algiers, in the charge of gentle French Sisters, who were doing 
all they could for the imbecile stranger who had been given into 
their kindly keeping. They told me I had been taken off my drift- 
ing boat by the sailors of an Italian war-ship that, bound on a 
distant cruise, had left me at the nearest port they could touch, and 
placed me and my strong-box in the good Sisters’ care. Here I had 
lingered betwixt life and death for months, weak, fevered, deliri- 
ous, raving in a language the good Sisters could not understand. 
And then, at last, when strength and memory came back to me, 
I hurried to Saint Pierre, to find ” — his voice trembled — as you 
know, only a grave, a memory, and yet — ^yet still a hope to brighten 
life, for they told me I would find my children here. Henceforth 
I will live for you alone, and my love shall be, God grant, your 
shelter, your strength, your happiness^ I have means still, means 
to reestablish the honor, the fortunes of my house, means to make 
your home happy, your young lives glad and bright.” 

Long into the beautiful night they talked, and Mr. Meridith 
heard from Madame Lamar, from Euthven, of Corinne’s self- 
devotion, self-sacrifice. His brow shadowed as he heard of 
that . death-bed scene. Dearly as he had loved his beautiful 
Edith, he understood her selfish nature and all that it had 
demanded. 

On parting that night he took Corinne in his arms. ^^My 
child,” he said, gravely, tenderly, you are free. Your vow is ful- 
filled. You give your little sister into the keeping of a love nearer, 
stronger, holier than your own, for her father claims her from you, 
and blesses you for your love and devotion. Let your heart speak 


144 


CORINNE^B VOW, 


and do not fear to listen, for, like your own dead mother, yon were 
born to be the angel of a happy home.” 

« * H: ^ * 

And with her heart singing its psean of joy, Corinne rose in the 
sweet day dawn to go to early Mass in the little Chapel of Notre 
Dame, and lay her happiness at the sweet Mother’s feet. 

There came a qnick, manly footstep at her side. Let ns go 
together,” said Enthven. Beloved, it is to be always Together’ 
now, in joy and sorrow, in darkness and light. Look, look ! over 
the sea. There it is — the prophetic vision ! ” 

And as they pansed with clasped hands on the misty terraced 
cliff, it rose before them, hill and vale and peak and pinnacle, 
flashed with a tender, roseate glow — the Fairy Isle, the Land of 
the Morning, visible only to eyes nndimmed and hearts nnstained. 

It is Eden,” whispered Enthven, softly. For love like onrs 
the angel drops his flaming sword. With God’s blessing we can 
enter in.” 


PRINTBP PY BBNZIGER brother?, ^’S:w YOBR, 


Standard Catholic books 

PUBLISHED BY 

BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

CINCINNATI: NEW YORK: Chicago: 

343 Main St. 36 and 38 Barclay St. 211-213 Madison 8t. 


DOCTRINE, INSTRUCTION, DEVOTION. 

ABANDONMENT; or, Absolute Surrender of Self to Divine Providence. 

Rev. J. P. Caussade, S.J. net, o 40 

ADORATION OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. Tesniere. Cloth, 

net, I 25 

ALPHONSUS LIGUORI, ST. Complete Ascetic Works. 22 vols., each, 

net, 1 25 

ANALYSIS OF THE GOSPELS. Rev. L. A. Lambert, LL.D. net, x 25 
APOSTLES’ CREED, THE. Rev. Muller, C.SS.R. I| net, i 10 

ART OF PROFITING BY OUR FAULTS. Rev. J. Tissox. net, o 40 

BIBLE. THE HOLY. o 80 

BIRTHDAY SOUVENIR. Mrs. A. E. Buchanan. o 50 

BLESSED VIRGIN, THE. Rev. Dr. Keller. « 75 

BLOSSOMS OF THE CROSS. Emily Giehrl. i 25 

BOOK OF THE PROFESSED. 

Vol. I. net, 0 75 

Vol. II. net, o 60 

Vol. III. net, o 60 

BOYS’ AND GIRLS’ MISSION BOOK. By the Redemptorist Fathers, o 35 
Per 100, 17 50 

CATECHISM EXPLAINED, THE. Spirago-Clarke. net, 2 50 

CATHOLIC BELIEF. Faa di Bruno. 

Paper, *0.25; 100 copies, 15 00 

Cloth, *0.50; 25 copies, 7 50 

CATHOLIC CEREMONIES and Explanation of the Ecclesiastical Year. 
Abbe Durand. 

Paper, *0.30; 25 copies, 4 50 

Cloth, *0.60; 25 copies, 9 00 

CATHOLIC PRACTICE AT CHURCH AND AT HOME. Rev. Alex. L. 
A. Klauder. 

Paper, *0.30; 25 copies, 4 50 

Cloth, *0.60; 25 copies, 9 00 

CATHOLIC TEACHING FOR CHILDREN. Winifrid Wray. o 40 

CATHOLIC WORSHIP. Rev. R. Brennan, LL.D. 

Paper, *0.15; 100 copies, 10 00 

Cloth, *0.25; 100 copies, 17 00 

CHARACTERISTICS OF TRUE DEVOTION. Rev. N. Grou, S.J. net, 0 75 

CHARITY THE ORIGIN OF EVERY BLESSING. o 60 

CHILD OF MARY. Prayer-Book for Children. o 60 

CHILD’S PRAYER-BOOK OF THE SACRED HEART. o 20 

CHRISTIAN FATHER. Right Rev. W. Cramer. 

Paper, *0.25; 25 copies, 3 75 

Cloth, *0.40; 25 copies, 6 00 

I 


CHRISTIAN MOTHER. Right Rev. W. Cramer. 

Paper, *0.25; 25 copies, 3 75 

Cloth, *0.40; 25 copies, 6 00 

CHURCH AND HER ENEMIES. Rev. M. Muller, C.SS.R. H net, i 10 
COMEDY OF ENGLISH PROTESTANTISM. A. F. Marshall, net, o 75 

COMPLETE OFFICE OF HOLY WEEK. o 50 

100 copies, 25 00 

COMMUNION. J Per 100, net, 3 50 

CONFESSION. (. Edited by Rev. John J. Nash, D.D. Per 100, 7tei, 3 50 

CONFIRMATION. j Per 100, net, 3 50 

COUNSELS OF ST. ANGELA to Her Sisters in Religion. net, o 25 

DEVOTION OF THE HOLY ROSARY and the Five Scapulars. || net, 0 75 

DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR THE SICK-ROOM. Krebs, C.SS.R. 

Cloth, net, i 00 

DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS OF ST. ALPHONSUS. A Complete 
Prayer-book. fi 00 

DEVOTIONS TO THE SACRED HEART for the First Friday of Every 
Month. By Pere Huguet. 0 40 

DEVOUT INSTRUCTIONS, GOFFINE’S. i.oo; 25 copies, 17 50 


DIGNITY AND DUTY OF THE PRIEST; or. Selva, a Collection of Mate- 
rial for Ecclesiastical Retreats. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. net, i 25 


DIGNITY, AUTHORITY, DUTIES OF PARENTS, ECCLESIASTICAL 


AND CIVIL POWERS. By Rev. M. Muller, C.SS.R. 1 | net, i 40 

DIVINE OFFICE: Explanations of the Psalms and Canticles. By St. Ali 
PHONSus DE Liguori. net, i 23 

EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. 0.25; 100 copies, 1900 

EUCHARIST AND PENANCE. Rev. M. Muller, C.SS.R. I| net, i 10 
EUCHARISTIC CHRIST, Reflections and Considerations on the Blessed 
Sacrament. Rev. A. Tesniere. net, i 00 


EUCHARISTIC GEMS. A Thought About the Most Blessed Sacrament for 
Every Day in the Year. By Rev. L. C. Coelenbier. 0 75 

EXPLANATION OF COMMANDMENTS, ILLUSTRATED. i 00 

EXPLANATION OF THE APOSTLES’ CREED, ILLUSTRATED. i 00 

EXPLANATION OF THE BALTIMORE CATECHISM OF CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE. Rev. Th. L. Kinkead. net, i 00 

EXPLANATION OF THE COMMANDMENTS, Precepts of the Church. 
Rev. M. Muller, C.SS.R. || }iet, i 10 

EXPLANATION OF THE GOSPELS and of Catholic Worship. Rev. L. A. 
Lambert. 

Paper, *0.30; 25 copies, 4 50 

Cloth, *0.60; 25 copies, g 00 

EXPLANATION OF THE HOLY SACRAMENTS, ILLUSTRATED, i 00 

EXPLANATION OF THE HOLY SACRIFICE OF THE MASS. Rev. M. 

V. COCHEM. I 23 

EXPLANATION OF THE OUR FATHER AND THE HAIL MARY. 
Rev. R. Brennan, LL.D. o 75 

EXPLANATION OF THE PRAYERS AND CEREMONIES OF THE 
MASS, ILLUSTRATED. Rev. D. I. Lanslots, O.S.B. 
EXPLANATION OF THE SALVE REGINA. Liguori. 

EXTREME UNCTION. 

100 copies. 


I 25 
0 75 
o 10 
6 00 


FAMILIAR EXPLANATION OF CATHOLIC DOCTRINE. Rev. M. 
Muller, C.SS.R. j 00 

FIRST AND GREATEST COMMANDMENT. By Rev. M. Muller, 
C.SS.R. 11 net, i 40 

FIRST COMMUNICANT’S MANUAL. +0 30 

100 copies, 25 00 

FLOWERS OF THE PASSION. Thoughts of St. Paul of the Cross. By 
Rev. Louis Th. de Jesus-Agonisant. *0.50; per 100 copies, 30 00 


2 


FOLLOWING OF CHRIST. Thomas a Kempis. 

With Reflections, to.so; loo copies, 25 00 

Without Reflections, 10.45; 100 copies, 22 50 

Edition de luxe, fi 50 

FOUR LAST THINGS, THE: Death, Judgment, Heaven, Hell. Medita- 
tions. Father M. v. Cochem. Cloth, 0 75 

GARLAND OF PRAYER. With Nuptial Mass. Leather, to 90 

.GENERAL CONFESSION MADE EASY. Rev. A. Konings, C.SS.R. 
Flexible. Ho. 15; 100 copies, 10 00 

GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. Verheyen, 
O.S.B. net, o 30 

GLORIES OF DIVINE GRACE. Dr. M. J. Scheeben. net, i 50 

GLORIES OF MARY. St. Alphonsus de Liguori. 2 vols., net, 2 50 

GOFFINE’S DEVOUT INSTRUCTIONS. 140 Illustrations. Cloth, i.oo; 
25 copies, 17 50 

GOLDEN SANDS. Little Counsels for the Sanctification and Happiness of 

Daily Life. 

Third Series, 

Fourth Series, 

Fifth Series, 

GRACE AND THE SACRAMENTS. 


By Rev. M 


o 50 
o 50 
o 50 

Muller, C.SS.R. 

OF PERFECTION. " St.’ Al- 
net, 1 25 


GREAT MEANS OF SALVATION AND 
PHONsus DE Liguori. 

GREAT SUPPER OF GOD, THE. A Treatise on Weekly Communion. By 
Rev. S. Coube, S.J. Edited by Rev. F. X. Brady, S.J. Cloth, net, I 00 

GREETINGS TO THE CHRIST-CHILD, a Collection of Poems for the 
Young. Illustrated. 060 

GUIDE TO CONFESSION AND COMMUNION. fo 60 

HANDBOOK OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION. By S. J. W. Wil- 

MERS. net, I 50 

HAPPY YEAR, A. Abbe Lasausse. net, 1 00 

HEART OF ST. JANE FRANCES DE CHANTAL. Thoughts and Prayers. 

Compiled by the Sisters of the Divine Compassion. net, o 40 

HELP FOR THE POOR SOULS IN PURGATORY. to 50 

HIDDEN TREASLTRE: The Value and Excellence of the Holy Mass. By 
St. Leonard of Pt. Maurice. 0 50 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. By Rev. J. O’Brien. net, i 25 

HOLY EUCHARIST. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. The Sacrifice, the 
Sacrament and the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ. Novena to the Holy 
Ghost. net, i 25 

HOLY MASS. By Rev. M. Muller, C.SS.R. || net, i 25 

HOLY MASS. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. net, i 25 

HOW TO COMFORT THE SICK. Rev. Jos. A. Krebs, C.SS.R. Cloth, 

net, I 00 

HOW TO MAKE THE MISSION. By a Dominican Father. Paper, 0 10; 

per 100, 5 00 

ILLUSTRATED PRAYER-BOOK FOR CHILDREN, to.25; 100 copies, 17 00 
IMITATION OF CHRIST. See “Following of Christ.” 

IMITATION OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY. Translated by Mrs. A. 
R. Bennett-Gladstone. 

Plain Edition, to 50 

Edition de luxe, ti So 

IMITATION OF THE SACRED HEART. By Rev. F. Arnoudt, S.J. ti 25 
INCARNATION, BIRTH, AND INFANCY OF JESUS CHRIST; or, the 

Mysteries of Faith. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. ftet, i 25 

INDULGENCES, A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO. Rev. P. M. Bernad, 
O.M.I. o 75 

IN HEAVEN WE KNOW OUR OWN. By Pere S. J. Blot. 0 60 


INSTRUCTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR THE CATHOLIC FATHER. 

Right Rev. Dr. A. Egger. to 75 

INSTRUCTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR THE CATHOLIC MOTHER. 
Right Rev. Dr. A. Egger. to 75 

INSTRUCTIONS, Fifty-two, on the Principal Truths of Our Holy Religion. 

By Rev. Thos. F. Ward. net, 0 75 

INSTRUCTIONS FOR FIRST COMMUNICANTS. By Rev. Dr. J. 

Schmitt. net, o 50 

INSTRUCTIONS ON THE COMMANDMENTS OF GOD and the Sacra- 
ments of the Church. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. 

Paper, 0.25; 25 copies, 3 75 

Cloth, 0.40; 25 copies, 6 00 

INTERIOR OF JESUS AND MARY. Grou. 2 vols., net, 2 00 

INTRODUCTION TO A DEVOUT LIFE. By St. Francis de Sales. 

Cloth, to.50; 100 copies, 30 00 

JESUS THE GOOD SHEPHERD. Right Rev. L. de Goesbriand, D.D., 
Bishop of Burlington. net, 0 75 

LABORS OF THE APOSTLES, Their Teaching of the Nations. By Right 
Rev. L. DE Goesbriand, D.D., Bishop of Burlington. net, i 00 

LETTERS OF ST. ALPHONSUS DE LIGUORI. 4 vols., each vol., net, 1 25 
LETTERS OF ST. ALPHONSUS LIGUORI and General Alphabetical In- 
dex to St. Alphonsus’ Works. net, i 25 

LITTLE BOOK OF SUPERIORS. net, o 60 

LITTLE CHILD OF MARY. A Small Prayer-book. to.3S; 100 copies, 21 00 
LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY. Illustrated. to.6o; 100 copies, 

36 00 

LITTLE MONTH OF MAY. By Ella McMahon. Flexible, o 25 

100 copies, 19 00 

LITTLE MONTH OF THE SOULS IN PURGATORY. 0.25; 100 copies, 

19 00 

LITTLE OFFICE OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION. 0.05; per 
100, 2 50 

LITTLE PRAYER-BOOK OF THE SACRED HEART. By Blessed Mar- 
garet Mary Alacoque. to 40 

MANIFESTATION OF CONSCIENCE. Langogne, O.M.Cap. nat, o 50 
MANUAL OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. Complete Manual of Devotion of 
the Mother of God. to 60 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY EUCHARIST. Conferences on the Blessed Sac- 
rament and Eucharistic Devotions. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. to 75 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY FAMILY. to 60 

MARI.® COROLLA. Poems by Father Edmund of the Heart of Mary, C.P. 

Cloth, I 25 

MASS, THE, OUR GREATEST TREASURE. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. 

Cloth, to 75 

MAXIMS AND COUNSELS OF FRANCIS DE SALES. net, 0 35 

MAY DEVOTIONS, NEW. Rev. Augustine Worth, O.S.B. J] net, i 00 
MEANS OF GRACE. By Rev. Richard Brennan, LL.D. *2 50 

MEDITATIONS FOR ALL THE DAYS OF THE YEAR. By Rev. M. 

Hamon, S.S. s vols., net, 5 00 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. Baxter, net, i 25 
MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. Rev. B. Vercruysse, 
S.J. 2 vols., net, 2 75 

MEDITATIONS FOR RETREATS. St. Francis de Sales. Cloth, net, o 75 
MEDITATIONS FOR SECULAR PRIESTS. Chaignon, S.J. 2 vols., 

net, 4 00 

MEDITATIONS ON THE FOUR LAST THINGS. Father M. v. Cochem. 

o 75 

MEDITATIONS ON THE LAST WORDS FROM THE CROSS. Father 
Charles Perraud. H net, o 50 


4 


MEDITATIONS ON THE MONTH OF OUR LADY. o 75 

meditations on the passion of our lord, *0.40; 100 copies, 


24 00 

MEDITATIONS ON THE SUFFERINGS OF JESUS CHRIST. By Rev. 
Francis da Perinaldo. net, o 75 

miscellany. Historical sketch of the Congregation of the Most Holy 
Redeemer. Rules and Constitutions of the Congregation of the Most Holy 
Redeemer. Instructions on the Religious State. By St. Alphonsus de 
Liguori. net, i 25 


MISSION BOOK FOR THE MARRIED, Very Rev. F. Girardey, C.SS.R. 
0.50; 100 copies, 25 00 

MISSION BOOK FOR THE SINGLE. Very Rev. F. Girardey, C.SS.R. 
0.50; 100 copies, 25 00 

MISSION BOOK OF THE REDEMPTORIST FATHERS. A Manual of 
Instructions and Prayers to Preserve the Fruits of the Mission. Drawn 
chiefly from the works of St. Alphonsus Liguori. 0.50; 100 copies, 25 00 


MISTRESS OF NOVICES, THE, Instructed in Her Duties. Leguay. 

net, o 75 

MOMENTS BEFORE THE TABERNACLE. Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J. 


net, 0 40 

MONTH, NEW, OF ST. JOSEPH. St. Francis de Sales. 0 25 

MONTH, NEW, OF THE HOLY ANGELS. St. Francis de Sales. 0.25; 
100 copies, 19 00 

MONTH, NEW, OF THE SACRED HEART. St. Francis de Sales, o 25 

MONTH OF MARY, NEW. St. Francis de Sales, 0 25 

MONTH OF MAY; a Series of Meditations on the Mysteries of the Life of 

the Blessed Virgin. By F. Debussi, S.J. 0 50 

MONTH OF THE DEAD; or. Prompt and Easy Deliverance of the Souls 
in Purgatory. By Abbe Cloquet. o 50 

MOST HOLY ROSARY. Thirty-one Meditations. Right Rev. W. Cramer, 
D.D. o so 

MOST HOLY SACRAMENT. Rev. Dr. Jos. Keller. o 75 

MY FIRST COMMUNION : The Happiest Day of My Life. Brennan, o 75 

NEW RULE OF THE THIRD ORDER. 0.05; per 100, 3 00 

NEW TESTAMENT. Cheap Edition. 

32mo, flexible cloth, net, 0 15 

32mo, lambskin, limp, round corners, gilt edges, net, o 75 

NEW TESTAMENT. Illustrated Edition. 

24mo, garnet cloth, with 100 full-page illustrations, net, o 60 

24mo, Rutland Roan, limp, round corners, red or gold edges, net, i 25 

NEW TESTAMENT. India Paper Edition. 

3003 Lambskin, limp, round corners, gilt edges, net, i 00 

4011 Persian Calf, limp, round corners, gilt edges, net, i 25 


4017 Morocco, limp, round corners, gold edges, gold roll inside, net, 1 50 


NEW TESTAMENT. Large Print Edition. 

i2mo, cloth, round corners, red edges, net, o 75 

i2mo, American Seal, limp, round corners, red or gold edges, net, i 50 
NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES. By Right Rev. Mgr. Thomas J. Conaty, 
D.D. i2mo, 0 60 

OFFICE, COMPLETE, OF HOLY WEEK. $0.50; 100 copies, 25 00 

ON THE ROAD TO ROME. By W. Richards. net, 0 50 

OUR BIRTHDAY BOUQUET. E. C. Donnelly. i 00 

OUR LADY OF GOOD COUNSEL IN GENAZZANO. Mgr. Geo. F. 

Dillon, D.D. 0 75 

OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. By Very Rev. Dean A. A. Lings, to 60 

OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. Very Rev. Dean A. A. Lings. to 60 


OUR MONTHLY DEVOTIONS. By Very Rev. Dean A. A. Lings. ti 25 


5 


OUK OWN WILL AND HOW TO DETECT IT IN OUR ACTIONS. 

Rev. John Allen, D.D. o 75 

EARACLETE, the. Devotions to the Holy Ghost. llo 60 

PARADISE ON EARTH OPENED TO ALL; A Religious Vocation the 
Surest Way in Life. By Rev. Antonio Natale, S.J. net, 0 40 

PASSION AND DEATH OF JESUS CHRIST. By St. Alphonsus de 
Liguori. net, i 25 

PASSION FLOWERS. Poems by Father Edmund, of the Heart of Mary, 
C.P. I 25 

PEARLS FROM THE CASKET OF THE SACRED HEART. Eleanor C. 

Donnelly. o 50 


PEOPLE’S MISSION BOOK, THE. Paper, o.io; per 100, 6 00 

PERFECT RELIGIOUS, THE. De la Motte. Cloth, net, 1 00 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. New, very cheap edition, with 
Reflections for Every Day in the Year, i.oo; 25 copies, 17 50 

PIOUS PREPARATION FOR FIRST HOLY COMMUNION. Rev. F. X. 

Lasance. Cloth, to 75 

POPULAR INSTRUCTIONS ON MARRIAGE. Very Rev. F. Girardey, 
C.SS.R. Paper, 0.25; 25 copies, 3 75 

Cloth, 0.40; 25 copies, 6 00 

POPULAR INSTRUCTIONS ON PRAYER. By Very Rev. Ferreol 
Girardey, C.SS.R. Paper, 0.25; 25 copies, 3 75 

Cloth, 0.40; 25 copies, 6 00 

POPULAR INSTRUCTIONS TO PARENTS on the Bringing Up of Chil- 
dren. By Very Rev. F. Girardey, C.SS.R. Paper, 0.25; 25 copies, 3 75 
Cloth, 0.40; 25 copies, 6 00 


PRAYER-BOOK FOR LENT. Gethsemani, Jerusalem, and Golgotha. Rev. 

A. Geyer. to 50 

PRAYER. The Great Means of Obtaining Salvation. By St. Alphonsus de 
Liguori. 0 50 


PREACHING. Vol. XV. St. Alphonsus de Liguori. The Exercises of the 
Missions. Various Counsels. Instructions on the Commandments and 
Sacraments. net, i 25 

PREPARATION FOR DEATH. St. Alphonsus de Liguori. Considera- 
tions on the Eternal Truths. Maxims of Eternity. Rule of Life, net, i 25 
PRODIGAL SON; or, the Sinner’s Return to God. H nef, i 00 

REASONABLENESS OF CATHOLIC CEREMONIES AND PRACTICES. 

Rev. J. J. Burke. *0 35 

RELIGIOUS STATE, THE. With a Treatise on the Vocation to the Priest- 
hood. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. o 50 


REVELATIONS OF THE SACRED HEART to Blessed Margaret Mary. 


Bougaud. Cloth, net, i so 

SACRAMENTALS OF THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH. Rev. A. A. 
Lambing, D.D. Paper, 0.30; 25 copies, 4 50 

Cloth, 0.60; 25 copies, 9 00 

SACRAMENTALS — Prayer, etc. By Rev. M. Muller, C.SS.R. 1 | net, i 00 
SACRED HEART, THE. Rev. Dr. Joseph Keller. o 75 

SACRED HEART, THE, Studied in the Sacred Scriptures. Rev. H. Saint- 
rain, C.SS.R. net, 2 00 

SACRIFICE OF THE MASS WORTHILY CELEBRATED, THE. By 
Rev. Father Chaignon, S.J. net, i 50 

SECRET OF SANCTITY. St. Francis de Sales. net, i 00 

SERAPHIC GUIDE, THE. A Manual for the Members of the Third Order 
of St. Francis. By a Franciscan Father. to 60 

SHORT CONFERENCES ON THE LITTLE OFFICE OF THE IM- 
MACULATE CONCEPTION. Very Rev. J. Rainer. o 50 

SHORT STORIES ON CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE. From the French by 
Mary McMahon. net, 0 75 

SPIRITUAL CRUMBS FOR HUNGRY LITTLE SOULS. Mary E. 
Richardson. 0 50 

SPIRITUAL DIRECTION. net, 0 60 


6 


SPIRITUAL EXERCISES FOR TEN DAYS’ RETREAT. Very Rev. v. 

Smetana, C.SS.R. net, i oo 

SODALISTS’ VADE MECUM. Jo 50 

SONGS AND SONNETS. By Maurice Francis Egan. i 00 

SOUVENIR OF THE I NOVITIATE. By Rev. Edward I. Taylor, net, 0 60 


ST. ANTHONY. Rev. Dr. Jos. Keller. o 75 

ST. JOSEPH, OUR ADVOCATE. By Father Huguet. o 90 

STATIONS OF THE CROSS. Illustrated. fo 50 

STORIES FOR FIRST COMMUNICANTS. Rev. J. A. Keller, D.D. 0 50 
STRIVING AFTER PERFECTION. Rev. Joseph Bayma, S.J. net, i 00 


SURE WAY TO A HAPPY MARRIAGE. Rev. Edward I. Taylor. 

Paper, 0.25; 25 copies, 3 75 

Cloth, 0.40; 25 copies, 6 00 


THIRTY-TWO INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE MONTH OF MAY. Rev. 
Thomas F. Ward. net, o 75 

THOUGHT FROM BENEDICTINE SAINTS. net, o 35 

THOUGHT FROM ST. ALPHONSUS. net, 0 35 

THOUGHT FROM ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI and His Saints. net, 0 35 

THOUGHT FROM ST. IGNATIUS. net, 0 35 

THOUGHT FROM ST. THERESA. net, 0 35 

THOUGHT FROM ST. VINCENT DE PAUL. net, 0 35 

THOUGHTS AND COUNSELS for the Consideration of Catholic Young 
Men. Rev. P. A. Doss, S.J. || net, i 25 

TRUE POLITENESS. Abbe Francis Demore. net, o 60 

TRUE SPOUSE OF JESUS CHRIST. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. 2 
vols.. Centenary Edition, net, 2 50 

The same in i volume, net, i 00 

TWO SPIRITUAL RETREATS FOR SISTERS. By Rev. E. Zollner. 

net, i 00 

VENERATION OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. Her Feasts, Prayers, Re- 
ligious Orders, and Sodalities. By Rev. B. Rohner, O.S.B. i 25 


VICTORIES OF THE MARTYRS; or, the Lives of the Most Celebrated 
Martyrs of the Church. Vol. IX. By Alphonsus de Liguori. net, i 25 


VISITS TO JESUS IN THE TABERNACLE. Hours and Half Hours of 
Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament. With a Novena to the Holy 
Ghost and Devotions for Mass, Holy Communion, etc. Rev. F. X. La- 
sance. Cloth, fl 2S 

VISITS TO THE MOST HOLY SACRAMENT and to the Blessed Virgin 
Mary. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. to 50 

VOCATIONS EXPLAINED: Matrimony, Virginity, The Religious State, 
and the Priesthood. By a Vincentian Father, o. 10; 100 copies, 6 00 

WAY OF INTERIOR PEACE. By Rev. Father De Lehen, S.J. net, 1 23 


I 


WAY OF SALVATION AND PERFECTION. Meditations, Pious Reflec^ 


tions. Spiritual Treatises. St. Alphonsus de Liguori. net, i 25 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, 0.05; 100 copies, 2 50 

WORDS OF JESUS CHRIST DURING HIS PASSION. Explained in 
Their Literal and Moral Sense. By Rev. F. X. Schouppe, S.J. *0.25; loo 
copies, 17 00 

WORDS OF WISDOM. A Concordance to the Sapiential Books. Edited b^ 
Rev. John J. Bell. net, i 25 

YEAR OF THE SACRED HEART. A Thought for Every Day of the Year. , 
Anna T. Sadlier. o 50 j 


YOUNG GIRLS’ BOOK OF PIETY, AT SCHOOL AND AT HOME. A 
Prayer-book for Girls in Convent Schools and Academies. Golden Sands. 

ti 00 

ZEAL IN THE WORK OF THE MINISTRY; The Means by which Every 
Priest May Render His Ministry Honorable and Fruitful. By Abbe 
Dubois. ^ So 


7 


JUVENILES. 


ADVENTURES OF A CASKET. o 45 

ADVENTURES OF A FRENCH CAPTAIN. o 45 

AN ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. By Gabriel Ferry. o 40 

ANTHONY. A Tale of the Time of Charles II. of England. o 45 

ARMORER OF SOLINGEN. By William Herchenbach. o 40 

BERTHA; or, Consequences of a Fall. o 45 

BEST FOOT FORWARD. By Father Finn. o 85 

BETTER PART. o 45 

BISTOURI, By A. Melandri. o 40 

BLACK LADY, AND ROBIN RED BREAST. By Canon Schmid. o 25 
BLANCHE DE MASSILLY. o 45 

BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By Marion Ames Taggart. 0 40 

BOYS IN THE BLOCK. By Maurice F. Egan. o 25 

BRIC-A-BRAC DEALER. o 45 

BUZZER’S CHRISTMAS. By Mary T. Waggaman. o 25 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. By Marion Ames Taggart. o 40 

CAKE AND THE EASTER EGGS. By Canon Schmid. o 25 

CANARY BIRD. By Canon Schmid. o 45 

CAPTAIN ROUGEMONT. o 45 

CASSILDA; or the Moorish Princess. o 45 


CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK, THE. By Rev. H. S. Spalding, S.J. 


Cloth, o 85 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT; or. How the Problem Was Solved. By Father 
Finn. o 85 

COLLEGE BOY, A. By Anthony Yorke. Cloth, o 85 

CONVERSATION ON HOME EDUCATION. 0 45 

•DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. By Clara Mulholland. o 40 

EPISODES OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. An Account of the Religious 
Persecution. o 45 

ETHELRED PRESTON; or the Adventures of a Newcomer. By Father 
Finn. o 85 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. By Mary C. Crowley. o 40 

FATAL DIAMONDS. By E. C. Donnelly. o 25 

FINN, REV. F. J., S.J.: 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. Illustrated. 1 00 

THE BEST FOOT FORWARD. o 85 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. o 85 

ETHELRED PRESTON. o 85 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. o 85 

HARRY DEE. o 85 

TOM PLAYFAIR. o 8^ 

PERCY WYNN. o 85 

MOSTLY BOYS. o 8s 

FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTER. o 45 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES; or. The Old Tales Told Again. o 75 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK, THE, and the Badgers of Belmont. By 
Maurice F. Egan. o 85 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By Sara Trainer Smith. o 40 

GERTRUDE’S EXPERIENCE. o 45 

GODFREY THE HERMIT. By Canon Schmid. o 25 

GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S SECRET. o 45 

HARRY DEE; or. Working it Out. By Father Finn. o 85 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. By Sallie Margaret O’Malley, o 40 

HER FATHER’S RIGHT HAND. o 45 


8 


HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. By Father Finn. i oo 

HOP BLOSSOMS. By Canon Schmid. o 25 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. By Mary G. Bonesteel. o 40 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. By Maurice F. Egan. o 75 

INUNDATION, THE. Canon Schmid. o 40 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By Marion Ames Taggart. Cloth, 

o 8s 

JACK O’ LANTERN. By Mary T. Waggaman. o 40 

KLONDIKE PICNIC. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. o 85 

LAMP OF THE SANCTUARY. By Cardinal Wiseman. o 25 

LEGENDS OF THE HOLY CHILD JESUS from Many Lands. By A. 

Fowler Lutz. 0 75 

LITTLE MISSY. By Mary T. Waggaman. o 40 

LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. By Marion A. Taggart. o 85 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. By Marion J. Brunowe. 0 40 

MARCELLE. A True Story. o 45 

MASTER FRIDOLIN. By Emmy Giehrl. o 25 

MILLY AVELING. By Sara Trainer Smith. Cloth, o 85 

MOSTLY BOYS. By Father Finn. o 85 

MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. By Anna T. Sadlier. 0 40 

MY STRANGE FRIEND. By Father Finn. 0 25 

NAN NOBODY. By Mary T. Waggaman. o 40 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. By Sara Trainer Smith. o 40 

OLD ROBBER’S CASTLE. By Canon Schmid. o 25 

OLIVE AND THE LITTLE CAKES. o 45 

OVERSEER OF MAHLBOURG. By Canon Schmid. o 25 

PANCHO AND PANCHITA. By Mary E. Mannix. 0 40 

PAULINE ARCHER. By Anna T. Sadlier, o 40 

PERCY WYNN; or. Making a Boy of Him. By Father Finn. o 85 

PICKLE AND PEPPER. By Ella Loraine Dorsey. o 85 

PRIEST OF AUVRIGNY. o 45 

QUEEN’S PAGE. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. o 40 

RICHARD; or. Devotion to the Stuarts. o 45 

ROSE BUSH. By Canon Schmid. o 25 

SEA-GULL’S ROCK. By J. Sandeau. 0 40 

SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. 0 40 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. F. De Capella. o 75 
TAMING OF POLLY. By Ella Loraine Dorsey. o 85 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME: and What Came of It. By Father Finn. o 85 
THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. By Marion A. Taggart, o 40 
THREE LITTLE KINGS. By Emmy Giehrl. 0 25 

TOM PLAYFAIR; or. Making a Start. By Father Finn. 0 85 

TOM’S LUCKPOT. By Mary T. Waggaman. o 40 

TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUNTAIN. By M. A. Taggart. 0 85 

VILLAGE STEEPLE, THE. 0 45 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. By Marion Ames Taggart, o 85 
WRONGFULLY ACCUSED. By William Herchenbach. 0 40 

NOVELS AND STORIES. 

ASER, THE SHEPHERD. A Christmas Story. By Marion Ames Taggart. 

net, o 35 

BEZALEEL. A Christmas Story. By Marion Ames Taggart. net, o 35 
CIRCUS RIDER’S DAUGHTER, THE. A Novel. By F. v. Bracked, x 25 

9 


CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. A Novel. By Mrs. W. M. Bertholds 


1 25 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. A Classic Novel. By Miles Keon. Cloth, i 25 
FABIOLA; or, The Church of the Catacombs. By Cardinal Wiseman. Pop- 
ular Illustrated Edition, 0.90; Edition de luxe, 5 00 

FABIOLA’S SISTERS. A Companion Volume to Cardinal Wiseman’s 
“ Fabiola.” By A. C. Clarke. i 25 

HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN, THE. By the Countess Hahn-Hahn. i 25 

IDOLS; or, The Secrets of the Rue Chausee d’Antin. De Navery. ^ i 25 

LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER. A Novel. By Josephine Marie. i 00 

LINKED LIVES. A Novel. By Lady Gertrude Douglas. i 50 

MARCELLA GRACE. A Novel. By Rosa Mulholland. Illustrated Edi- 
tion. I 25 

MISS ERIN. A Novel. By M. E. Francis. i 25 

MONK’S PARDON, THE. A Historical Novel of the Time of Phillip IV. 

of Spain. By Raoul de Navery. i 25 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. A Novel. By Walter Lecky. i 25 

OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE, THE. A Novel. By A. de Lamothe. i 25 

PASSING SHADOWS. A Novel. By Anthony Yorke. i 25 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. A Novel. By Walter Lecky. i 25 

PETRONILLA. By E. C. Donnelly. i 00 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE. By Lelia Hardin Bugg. i 00 

ROMANCE OF A PLAYWRIGHT. By Vte. Henri de Bornier. i 00 


ROUND TABLE OF THE REPRESENTATIVE AMERICAN CATHOLIC 
NOVELISTS. Complete Stories, with Biographies, Portraits, etc. Cloth, 

I so 

ROUND TABLE OF THE REPRESENTATIVE FRENCH CATHOLIC 
NOVELISTS. Complete Stories, with Biographies, Portraits, etc. Cloth, 

I 50 

ROUND TABLE OF THE REPRESENTATIVE IRISH AND ENGLISH 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. Complete Stories, Biographies, Portraits, etc. 
Cloth. I 50 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD, THE. By Anna T. Sadlier. i 25 
VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. A Novel. By Maurice F.' Egan. 

I 2<; 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. By Christian Reid. i 25 

WORLD WELL LOST. By Esther Robertson. o 75 


LIVES AND HISTORIES, 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. Edited by J. F. X. 

O’Conor. Cloth, net, i 25 

BLESSED ONES OF 1888, THE. Bl. Clement Maria Hoffbauer, C.SS.R. ; 
Bl. Louis Marie Grignon de Monfort; Bl. Brother Aegidius Man^ of St. 
Joseph; Bl. Josephine Mary of St. Agnes. From the original by Eliza A. 
Donnelly. With Illustrations, 0 50 

HISTORIOGRAPHIA ECCLESIASTICA quam Historiae seriam Solidamque 
Operam Navantibus, Accomodavit Guil. Stang, D.D. [j net, i 00 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH. Brueck. 2 vols., net, 3 00 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH. By John Gilmary Shea, 
LL.D. I 50 

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT REFORMATION IN ENGLAND 
AND IRELAND. By Wm. Cobbett. Cloth, net, 0.50; paper, net, o 25 

LETTERS OF ST. ALPHONSUS LIGUORI. By Rev. Eugene Grimm, 
C.SS.R. Centenary Edition. 5 vols., each, net, i 25 

LIFE OF BLESSED MARGARET MARY. By Mgr. Bougaud, Bishop of 
Laval. net, i 50 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Illustrated. By Father M. v. Cochem, i 25 

10 


LIFE OF FATHER CHARLES SIRE, of the Society of Jesus. By Rev. 
Vital Sire. net, i oo 

LIFE OF FATHER JOGUES, Missionary Priest of the Society of Jesus. By 
Father F. Martin, S.J. net, o 75 

LIFE OF FR. FRANCIS POILVACHE, C.SS.R. Paper, net, 0 20 

LIFE OF MOTHER FONTBONNE, Foundress of the Sisters of St. Joseph 
of Lyons. By Abbe Rivaux. Cloth, net, i 25 

LIFE OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST. Cloth, net, 5 00 
LIFE OF SISTER ANNE KATHERINE EMMERICH, of the Order of St. 
Augustine. By Rev. Thomas Wegener, O.S.A. net, i 50 

LIFE OF ST. ALOYSIUS GONZAGA. Edition de luxe. By Rev. Father 
Virgil Cepari, S.J. net, 2 50 

LIFE OF ST. ALOYSIUS GONZAGA, of the Society of Jesus. By Rev. J. 

F. X. O’CoNOR, S.J. net, 0 75 

LIFE OF ST. CATHARINE OF SIENNA. By Edward L. Ayme, M.D. Hi 00 
LIFE OF ST. CLARE OF MONTEFALCO. Locke, O.S.A. net, o 75 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. Illustrated. By Rev. B. Rohner, 
O.S.B. i 25 

LIFE OF THE VEN. MARY CRESCENTIA HOESS. By Rev. C. Dey- 
MANN, O.S.F. net, i 25 

LITTLE LIVES OF SAINTS FOR CHILDREN. Berthold. 111 . Cloth, 

0 75 

LOURDES: Its Inhabitants, Its Pilgrims, Its Miracles. By Rev. R. F. 

Clarke, S.J. o 75 

NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC HEARTS. By Anna T. Sadlier. 

1 00 

OUR BIRTHDAY BOUQUET. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. i 00 

OUR LADY OF GOOD COUNSEL IN GENAZZANO. A History of that 
Ancient Sanctuary. By Anne R. Bennett-Gladstone. 0 75 

OUTLINES OF JEWISH HISTORY, From Abraham to Our Lord. Rev. 

F. E. Gigot, S.S. II net, i 50 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT HISTORY. By Rev. F. E. Gigot, S.S. 

Cloth, net, i 50 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Cloth, i.oo; 25 copies, 17 50 

REMINISCENCES OF RT. REV. EDGAR P. WADHAMS, D.D., First 
Bishop of Ogdensburg. By Rev. C. A. Walworth. || net, i 00 

ST. ANTHONY, THE SAINT OF THE WHOLE WORLD. Rev. Thomas 
F. Ward. Cloth, 0 75 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. By Very Rev. Dean A. A. Lings, o 75 

VICTORIES OF THE MARTYRS. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. net, 125 

VISIT TO EUROPE AND THE HOLY LAND. By Rev. H. Fairbanks. 

I SO 

WIDOWS AND CHARITY. Work of the Women of Calvary and Its 
Foundress. Abbe Chaffanjon. Paper, || net, 0 50 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. By Anna T. Sadlier. i 00 


THEOLOGY, LITURGY, SERMONS, SCIENCE AND 
PHILOSOPHY. 

ABRIDGED SERMONS, for All Sundays of the Year. By St. Alphonsus 
DE Liguori. Centenary Edition. Grimm, C.SS.R. net, i 25 

BAD CHRISTIAN, THE. By Rev. F. Hunolt, S.J. Translated by Rev. J. 

Allen, D.D. 2 vols., 5 00 

BLESSED SACRAMENT, SERMONS ON THE. Especially for the Forty 
Hours’ Adoration. By Rev. J. B. Scheurer, D.D. Edited by Rev. F. X. 
Lasanck ftcty T 50 

BREVE COMPENDIUM THEOLOGIAE DOGMATICAE ET MORALTS 
una cum aliquibus Notionibus Theologiae Canonicae Li^rgiae, Pastoralis 
et Mysticae, ac Philosophiae Christianae. Berthier, M.S. || net, 2 50 

II 


BUSINESS GUIDE FOR PRIESTS. Stang, D.D. net, o 85 

CANONICAL PROCEDURE IN DISCIPLINARY AND CRIMINAL 
CASES OF CLERICS. By Rev. F. Droste. net, i 50 

CHILDREN OF MARY, SERMONS FOR THE. From the Italian of Rev. 

F. Callerio. Edited by Rev. R. F. Clarke, S.J. net, i 50 

CHRISTIAN ANTHROPOLOGY. Sermons. By Rev. John Thein. net, 2 50 
CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHY. A Treatise on the Human Soul. By Rev. J. 

T. Driscoll, S.T.L. net, i 25 

CHRISTIAN’S LAST END, THE. Sermons. By Rev. F. Hunolt, S.J. 
Translated by Rev. J. Allen, D.D. 2 vols., net, 5 00 

CHRISTIAN’S MODEL, THE. Sermons. By Rev. F. Hunolt, S.J. Trans- 
lated by Rev. J. Allen, D.D. 2 vols., net, 5 00 

CHRISTIAN STATE OF LIFE, THE. Sermons. By Rev. F. Hunolt, S.J. 
Translated by Rev. J. Allen, D.D. net, 5 00 

CHRIST IN TYPE AND PROPHECY. Rev. A. J. Maas, S.J., Professor 
of Oriental Languages in Woodstock College. 2 vols., net, 4 00 

CHURCH ANNOUNCEMENT BOOK. net, 0 25 

CHURCH TREASURER’S PEW. Collection and Receipt Book. net, i 00 
COMMENTARIUM IN FACULTATES APOSTOLICAS EPISCOPIS 
necnon Vicariis et Praefectis Apostolicis per Modum Formularum concedi 
solitas ad usum Venerabilis Cleri, imprimis Americani concinnatum ab 
Antonio Konings, C.SS.R. Editio quarto, recognita in pluribus emendata 
et aucta, curante Joseph Putzer, C.SS.R. net, 2 25 

COMPENDIUM JURIS CANONICI, ad usum Cleri et Seminariorum hujus 
Regionis accommodatum. net, 2 00 

COMPENDIUM SACRAE LITURGIAE JUNTA RITUM ROMANUM 
una cum Appendice de Jure Ecclesiastico Particulari in America Foederata 
Sept, vigente scripsit P. Innocentius Wapelhorst, O.S.F. Editio quinta 
emendation net, 2 50 

CONFESSIONAL, THE. By the Right Rev. A. Roeggl, D.D. || net, i 00 
DATA OF MODERN ETHICS EXAMINED. Ming, S.J. net, 2 00 

DE PHILOSOPHIA MORALI PRAELECTIONES quas in Collegio 
Georgiopolitano Soc. Jesu, Anno 1889-90 Habuit P. Nicolaus Russo. 
Editio altera. net, 2 00 

ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. By Rev. John Thein. IjW, 5 00 

ELEMENTS OF ECCLESIASTICAL LAW. By Rev. S. B. Smith, D.D. 
ECCLESIASTICAL PERSONS. net, 2 50 

ECCLESIASTICAL PUNISHMENTS. net, 2 50 

ECCLESIASTICAL TRIALS. net, 2 50 

fUNERAL SERMONS. By Rev. Aug. Wirth, O.S.B. 2 vols., || net, 2 00 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY OF HOLY SCRIP- 
TURES. By Rev. Francis E. Gigot, S.S. Cloth, net, 2 00 

GOD KNOWABLE AND KNOWN. By Rev. Maurice Ronayne, S.J. 

net, 1 25 

GOOD CHRISTIAN, THE. By Rev. J. Allen, D.D. 2 vols., net, 5 00 
HISTORY OF THE MASS AND ITS CEREMONIES IN THE EASTERN 
AND WESTERN CHURCH. By Rev. John O’Brien. net, 1 25 

LAST THINGS, SERMONS ON THE FOUR. Hunolt. Translated by 
Rev. John Allen, D.D. 2 vols., net, 5 00 

LENTEN SERMONS. Edited by Augustine Wirth, O.S.B. I| net, 2 00 
LIBER STATUS ANIMARUM; or. Parish Census Book. Pocket Edition, 
net, 0.25; half leather, net, 2 00 

LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, AND POLITICAL VIEWS OF ORESTES A. 
BROWNSON. By H. F. Brownson. net, i 25 

Marriage process JN the united states. Smith. net, 2 50 

It DRAL principles AND MEDICAL PRACTICE. THE BASTS OF 
MEDICAL JURISPRUDENCE. By Rev. Charles Coppens, S.T.. Pro- 
fessor of Medical Jurisprudence in the John A. Creighton Medical College, 
Omaha, Neb.; Author of Text-books in Metaphysics, Ethics, etc. net, i 50 

12 


NATURAL LAW AND LEGAL PRACTICE. Holaind, S.J. net , i 75 

NATURAL THEOLOGY. By B. Boedder, S.J. net , i 50 

OLD SERMONS. A Repertory of Catholic Pulpit Eloquence. 
Edited by Rev. Augustine Wirth, O.S.B. 8 vols., || net , 16 00 

OFFICE OF TENEBRAE, THE. Transposed from the Gregorian Chant 
into Modern Notation. By Rev. J. A. McCallen, S.S. net , 0 50 

OUR LORD, THE BLESSED VIRGIN, AND THE SAINTS, SERMONS 
ON. By Rev. Francis Hunolt, S.J. Translated by Rev. John Allen, 
D.D. 2 vols., net , 5 00 

OUTLINES OF DOGMATIC THEOLOGY. By Rev. Sylvester Jos. 
Hunter, S.J. 3 vols., net , 4 50 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT HISTORY. Vigot. Cloth, net , i 50 
PASTORAL THEOLOGY. By Rev. Wm. Stang, D.D. net , i 50 

PENANCE, SERMONS ON. By Rev. Francis Hunolt, S.J. Translated by 
Rev. John Allen. 2 vols., net , 5 00 

PENITENT CHRISTIAN, THE. Sermons. By Rev. F. Hunolt. Trans- 
lated by Rev. John Allen, D.D. 2 vols., net , 5 00 

PEW-RENT RECEIPT BOOK. net , i 00 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Synodi Diocesanae ac Provincialis Cele- 
brandae. net , o 60 

PRIEST IN THE PULPIT, THE. A Manual of Homiletics and Catechetics. 
Rev. B. Luebermann. net , i 50 


PRINCIPLES OF ANTHROPOLOGY AND BIOLOGY. By Rev. T. 

Hughes, S.J. net , 0 75 

REGISTRUM BAPTISMORUM. net , 3 50 

REGISTRUM MATRIMONIORUM. net , 3 50 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM seu Ordo Administrandi quaedam Sacra- 
menta et alia Officia Ecclesiastica Rite Peragendi ex Rituali Romano, 
novissime edito desumptas. net , o 75 

ROSARY, SERMONS ON THE MOST HOLY. Frings. net , i 00 

SACRED HEART, SIX SERMONS ON DEVOTION TO THE. By Rev. 
Dr. E. Bierbaum. net , o 60 

SANCTUARY BOYS’ ILLUSTRATED MANUAL. Embracing the Cere- 
monies of the Inferior Ministers at Low Mass, High Mass, Solemn High 
Mass, Vespers, Asperges, Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament and Ab- 
solution for the Dead. By Rev. J. A. McCallen, S.S. net , 0 50 

SERMON MANUSCRIPT BOOK. net , 2 00 

SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. With Two Courses of Lenten Sermons and 
a Triduum for the Forty Hours. By Rev. J. Pottgeiser, S.J. 2 vols., 

net , 2 50 

SERMONS ON THE CHRISTIAN VIRTUES. By Rev. F. Hunolt, S.J. 
Translated by Rev. John Allen. 2 vols., net , 5 00 

SERMONS ON THE DIFFERENT STATES OF LIFE. By Rev. F. 
Hunolt, S.J. Translated by Rev. John Allen. 2 vols., net , 5 00 


SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS. By Rev. F. Hunolt, S.J. 


2 vols. Translated by Rev. John Allen, D.D. net , 5 00 

SHORT SERMONS. By Rev. F. Hunolt, S.J. 5 vols., 10 00 

SHORT SERMONS FOR LOW MASSES. Schouppe, S.J. net , i 25 

SYNOPSIS THEOLOGIAE DOGMATICAE AD MENTEM S. THOMAE 
AQUINATIS, hodiernis moribus accommodata, auctore Ad. Tanquerey, 
S.l: 

I. THEOLOGLA FUNDAMENTALIS. Half morocco, net , i 50 


2. THEOLOGIA DOGMATICA SPECIALIS. 2 vols., half morocco, net , 3 00 

THEOLOGIA MORALIS NOVISSIMI ECCLESIAE DOCTORIS AL- 
PHONSI. In Compendium Redacta, et Usui Venerabilis Cleri Americani 
accomodata. Auctore Rev. A. Konings, C.SS.R. Editio s^tima, auctior 
et novis curis expolitior curante Henrico Kuper, C.SS.R. 2 vols., 

net . A 00 


13 


TWO-EDGED sword. By Rev. Augustine Wirth, O.S. 15 . Paper, net, o 
VADE MECUM SACERDOTUM, continens Preces ante et post Missam, 
modum providendi infirmos, necnon multas Benedictionum Formulas. 
Cloth, net, 0.25; Morocco flexible, net, o 50 

WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE FOR SCIENCE. With Sketches of the 
Great Catholic Scientists. By Rev. Martin S. Brennan. i 00 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

A GENTLEMAN. By M. F. Egan, LL.D. o 75 

A LADY. Manners and Social Usages. By Lelia Hardin Bugg. 0 75 

AIDS TO CORRECT AND EFFECTIVE ELOCUTION. With Selected 
Readings. By Eleanor O’Grady. i 25 

BONE RULES; or. Skeleton of English Grammar. By Rev. J. B. Tabb, 
A.M. o 50 

CANTATA CATHOLICA. By B. H. F. Hellebusch. || net, 2 00 

CATECHISM OF FAMILIAR THINGS. Their History, and the Events 
which Led to Their Discovery. With a Short Explanation of Some of the 
Principal Natural Phenomena. i 00 

CATHOLIC HOME ANNUAL. Stories by Best Writers. 0 25 

CORRECT THING FOR CATHOLICS, THE. By Lelia Hardin Bugg. 0 75 

ELOCUTION CLASS. A Simplification of the Laws and Principles of Ex- 
pression. By Eleanor O’Grady. net, o 50 

EVE OF THE REFORMATION, THE. An Historical Essay on the Re- 
ligious, Literary, and Social Condition of Christendom, with Special Ref- 
erence to Germany and England, from the Beginning of the Latter Half 
of the Fifteenth Century to the Outbreak of the Religious Revolt. I?y the 


Rev. Wm. Stang. Paper, j[ net, 0 25 

GAMES OF CATHOLIC AMERICAN AUTHORS: 

PICTORIAL GAME OF CATHOLIC AMERICAN AUTHORS. 

Series A, net, 0 15 

Series B, net, o 15 

GAMES OF QUOTATIONS FROM CATHOLIC AMERICAN AUTHORS. 
Series I., net, 0 15 

Series II., net, o 15 

Series III., net, o 15 

GUIDE FOR SACRISTANS and Others Having Charge of the Altar and 
Sanctuary. By a Member of an Altar Society. net, 0 75 

HOW TO GET ON. By Rev. Bernard Feeney. i 00 

LITTLE FOLKS’ ANNUAL. 0.05; per 100, 3 00 

ON CHRISTIAN ART. By Edith Healy. o 50 

READING AND THE MIND, WITH SOMETHING TO READ. By J. F. 

X. O’Conor, S.J. I 1 net, o 50 

READINGS AND RECITATIONS FOR JUNIORS. O’Grady. net, o 50 
SELECT RECITATIONS FOR CATHOLIC SCHOOLS AND ACAD- 
EMIES. By Eleanor O’Grady. i 00 

14 


c/ol/C 


I 


\ 


f 




biak 1 Iona. 


FEB 1 1902 

ICC'YbLL. !UUA..t^lV. 
Fit]. 1 \9Ui 




FEB. 6 J902 





